


Of Palaces and Memories

by keepcalmsmile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: From the beginning!, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmsmile/pseuds/keepcalmsmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many people know about one of Sherlock's Palaces; only Mycroft knows about both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Italics=present  
> Normal font=flashback
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_The pages of the book crackled with newness, even though the book itself was over twenty years old. It had sat, forgotten, on a shelf in the immaculate parlor, untouched, Mycroft Holmes was sure, since his mother had first assembled it. The Holmes were, by their very nature, unsentimental, far too busy to stop and fondly reminisce about long-past days. Mycroft was certain his mother had only made the book because at some point scrapbooking had been especially popular among upper class women, and his mother was never one to miss out on a fad._

_Mycroft glanced at the first picture: a photo of his mother, clad only in a hospital gown, grinning at the camera. A small, blue bundle was clutched to her chest...him.  He smiled humorlessly at the photo; in a way, he came about as a result of a fad. He knew his parents had only decided to have him because it was expected of all couples of their station and time in life to have at least one child. Always obedient to social standards, his parents had obligingly produced him, intending to only have the one child, the single impediment to their lifestyles.  Sherlock had been a mistake._

_The elder brother thought all this without a trace of anger. If anything, he found it ironic that the most unwilling of parents had produced two of the most brilliant minds of that generation. Perhaps that unwillingness is what had molded the brothers into who they were._

_Dispensing with the philosophical train of thought, it was pointless after all...neither his parents nor him nor most definitely Sherlock were going to change as a result of his musings, Mycroft turned the page, almost despite himself.  There he was again, about four, Mycroft decided, sitting in the library with a heavy book on his lap,  one of his fathers’ suit coats draped around him like a cloak (Father must have been away) looking cheekily up at the camera. It was not long after, Mycroft knew, that his four-year-old self had realized that his parents would never be able to raise him properly._

           

 

             He had had, from all accounts, seemed to be a fairly normal child, at least at first. His mother held and played with him when the mood struck her fancy, the nannies tended to his actual needs, and his father remained disinterested and usually away on business, unless the boy somehow disturbed his routine, but that was rare. As he grew into a toddler, Mother had sent him out to play with the children of her wealthy and powerful friends. Mycroft accepted this as a necessity. It seemed clear that while he was always smarter than all the other children his age (and very often, even children older than him) it was necessary to engage with them. It was not hard to discover the reason why. If one  treated others correctly: a smile at just the right time, a conspiratorial whisper when just the right people were looking, and, on occasion, a cold, hard glare, they would give you things you wanted: Timothy’s yo-yo, Jeanette’s ice cream, Alexander’s dollar. As he grew, he discovered he could make his schemes more elaborate. He could make them all agree on which game to play without any of them thinking it was his idea, he could make Charlotte and Lucy get in a fight, only to bring them back together before supper, he could choose who was “the captain” of the group, because if he chose the captain, they would listen to him, but no one would get angry at Mycroft.

            Mycroft assumed that this was why mother spent so much time with those other silly ladies, whom he found he could manipulate, if possible, even more easily with an endearing grin or mildly petulant pout; she was controlling them just as he was controlling the other children, and mother sent him out to play with the others because she _knew_ that he would be able to do it for her. They were a team. The thought always made the young Mycroft smile.

           Then came the day. His fourth birthday, and Mummy had invited all the usual children to come and play. Mycroft was excited. He loved watching all the people with all the things that made them angry or sad or glad and weaving them together in order to accomplish what he wanted.  It was one of the very few things that rarely bored him. He bounded down the stairs, a little louder than strictly necessary, but after all it _was_ his birthday, and came to a stop in front of Mummy.

           She smiled at him, her pale blonde hair and even paler blue-grey eyes looked nearly as excited as Mycroft felt. _She can’t wait for the game either_ he thought. She bent down and pulled him into a warm hug, “Happy birthday Mycroft.”

           Wrapping his arms around her neck, Mycroft whispered excitedly, “I think I’m going to make Jeanette mad at Lucy again and then I’ll make them better friends than ever.”

           He felt Mummy’s body stiffen. She pulled away, frowning slightly at him, “What do you mean Mykee,” she asked, and Mycroft noticed that her eyes were guarded, her voice hesitant, even, it seemed to the young boy, a little afraid.

          “I’m going to make Jeanette mad at Lucy again, which will make Adam happy because he likes playing with Jeanette, but she doesn’t play with him if Lucy’s there. But since Adam will be happy, and he wants Jeanette to still be his friend, so he will give his cake to Jeanette because she’s always hungry and always asks for more, but then Jeanette’s mother will get cross and she’ll tell Jeanette not to be greedy and give the cake to the birthday boy...which is me,” he finished with a smile, “And I will get _two_  pieces of cake!” he grinned expectantly up at Mummy, expecting her to smile in pride or perhaps tell him what game she was planning on playing with her friends.

           Instead, Mummy frowned, “Well if you want two slices of cake Mykee, you can just ask and we will get you more.”

           Mycroft opened his mouth to explain that he didn’t _really_ want two slices of cake (although he would definitely eat both), but that he wanted to play the _game,_ that he always needed to play the game to keep himself from getting bored or overwhelmed by the constant flow of thoughts that  kept him up at night long after Nanny had put him to bed: inventions, ideas, puzzles, memories all weaving together so that he could see things that none of the other children  could see...that no one else could see...except for Mummy.

            Mummy was still frowning at him. She did not understand. More than that, she seemed a little...nervous, scared even. She was staring at him as if she had never seen him properly before, as if he were a stranger.

            Then Mycroft understood. Mummy could not see those things either.  She was just as boring and silly as everyone else. He was alone.

_Alone. Alone. Alone._ The word followed him throughout his birthday party, where Mycroft _did_ get his second slice of cake, but it did not make him very happy. For a few weeks he had dejectedly moped about the house before his four-year-old mind had decided that he was being silly.  He was smarter than Mummy and Daddy and all the children at school and maybe even everyone in the whole world and it just made it easier for him to play his games that way. So through the years he smiled and pretended he was normal, getting grades that were high, but not too high, playing with lots of kids but never growing close to them, and playing his games, always being able to see what other people wanted, loved, hated, hoped, and feared and learning to use those all those things to get what he wanted. _It makes everyone so weak_ , he thought dismissively to himself, and he determined to not let anyone ever play those games with him. Yet no matter how many schemes he created, how many books he read, and how many puzzles he solved, the oppressive _aloneness_ always remained, threatening to suffocate him if his mind stayed still for more than a moment.

_Mycroft turned the page of the scrapbook, berating himself for getting hung up in emotional trappings as he did so. Once again his mother’s face smiled up at him from a hospital bed, another baby in her arms, a tuft of black hair barely visible from the top of the blue blanket. His mother’s smile was even more tremulous this time, even more uncertain. The love was there too, of course, , but Mummy’s eyes also betrayed a fleeting sense of insecurity, as if unsure how she had ended up in a hospital bed with another child in her arms. In some ways, Mycroft thought grimly, it was the truth._

 

           He had known his mother was pregnant weeks before she had told him, of course. He had noticed the nausea, the vomiting, and the fact that she no longer drank wine at dinner. A quick check with a few medical books in the library confirmed his suspicion. Once the puzzle was solved, the eight-year old had dismissed the matter. Undoubtedly it would bring changes, but there was not enough information to draw many conclusions, so he had returned to reading his book of famous world battles.

 

***

 

           Then the baby was _late_ , and while Mycroft knew this to be fairly common, he could not help but be irrationally annoyed with his future brother. He enjoyed plans and regularity and could not help but wonder if the baby’s stubborn insistence to remain in the womb boded ill for the future.

           It was these thoughts, along with general disinterest, that prevented Mycroft from being unduly excited as his nanny drove him to the hospital and brought him into the small white room to see the newborn. Mummy was propped up with pillows in the hospital bed, a small, blue bundle clutched in her arms. Father was at the other end of the room, his eyes glancing wistfully toward the door. He had to leave to catch a flight to New York in an hour. “Mycroft dear,” Mummy said, smiling at him. The boy noticed she was already wearing makeup, “Come see your new little brother.”

           Not wanting to disappoint Mummy, and a little curious, despite himself, Mycroft allowed Nanny to pick him up and carry him toward the bed. The baby was hardly attractive: small, red, and wrinkly, but Mycroft was not surprised. According to his books, that was how all babies were supposed to look just after they had been born. What did surprise him was how he _felt_ looking at the baby. Until now, the baby had been an interesting puzzle: a new subject to research and a new variable that would change their lives, possibly dramatically. He had neither loved nor hated the bulge growing beneath his mother’s heart. However, as he stared at the red, wrinkly baby with his tufts of black hair, Mycroft felt something strange in his chest, a fluttering, powerful sensation that threatened to overwhelm him. He struggled for several seconds to find a word to describe the fluttering, and he finally decided on ….love, and not just love…pride. He was proud of his little brother. There was nothing to set the baby apart from every other baby in the world, no reason for Mycroft to feel that _this_ baby was special, yet  he elder boy found he could not contain the irrational pride he felt in staring at the baby...at _his_ brother.

             Mycroft glanced at Mummy. She was smiling nervously at him, clearly uncertain of Mycroft’s reaction to his sibling. _Of course she doesn’t know if I like him or not_ , Mycroft thought dully, _she does not understand me..._ that infernal word _alone_ again pushed its way to the forefront of his mind.

             Suddenly, Mycroft caught his breath and looked back down at his brother. His heart was pounding as he watched the still-sleeping baby squirm a little. _I am not alone anymore_ , he thought. The immensity of the revelation dazed him a little. He was _not_ alone in a house with boring people who all thought and acted the same. Now there was someone else, someone who may even be able to _understand_ Mycroft the way no one else could.

_But that means Mummy won’t understand you either_ , Mycroft realized sadly, frowning at the baby. _She won’t be able to take care of you ...just like she cannot take care of me._

            “You look very serious, Mycroft,” Mummy said with a small, nervous laugh. Mycroft knew that, as always, she had no idea what he was thinking, and it was scaring her. “What do you think of your new baby brother?”

            Still not sure what all these new feelings meant, Mycroft asked the first question that popped into his head, “What’s his name?” An obvious question, really, he was a little angry at himself for not thinking of it before.

            “Sherlock,” Mummy replied. She hesitated again, still ill-at-ease, “Do you like it?”

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft repeated, feeling the word in his mouth. It sounded unusual but important, like Mycroft’s name...but different. The elder brother nodded in approval and, without really realizing what he was doing, he laid his small hand on Sherlock’s head, right in the middle of the tufts of hair which stuck up in every direction, “Don’t worry, Sherlock,” he whispered, “ _I’ll_ take care of you.”

            Then he smiled, because he was not alone anymore.

           


	2. Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft promised he would take care of his brother, but only now did he understand what that meant.

_Mycroft sighed and turned the page, finally conceding defeat. He would be looking through the rest of the album, a small, rare victory for distracting emotions. He felt his throat tighten uncomfortably as he stared at the next photo. Mycroft, eleven, sitting in a tiny closet, his arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock, three, who was sitting in Mycroft’s lap wrapped up in a small, blue blanket. His eyes were squeezed shut and his cheek was resting on Mycroft’s shoulder. The older brother’s eyes were also closed, and his face was obscured by his brother’s dark, wild curls. He would never admit it to anyone, but Mycroft knew he was hiding tears. It was the last time he cried._

           

The fits had started a few months before Sherlock’s third birthday. _No_ , Mycroft amended, that is when everyone started _noticing_ the fits. Sherlock had always been a fussy baby, but that had not seemed remarkable, merely an unfortunate and sometimes vexing reality that Sherlock would eventually outgrow. The only one who seemed to _really_ mind was Father, who glowered at Sherlock whenever he felt the baby was too disruptive, which was nearly every time they were in the same room. Mummy, the Nanny, and those of Mummy’s friends with whom she discussed such matters only became worried as Sherlock approached his third birthday, by which time, Mummy’s friends tittered, with the faintest hint of disapproval, he really _should_ be growing out of these silly tantrums.

            But, if anything, Sherlock’s tantrums only worsened as his birthday drew nearer. They would often come out of nowhere; Sherlock would be examining an insect or looking at books in the library or driving cars off the second floor banister when suddenly he would drop whatever he was doing and curl up in a ball, his hands clutching his head as if trying to cover both his ears and his eyes at once. Sometimes he would lie there in silence, unnaturally still for fifteen minutes at a time. More often he would scream for five, ten, twenty minutes, rolling on the ground and fighting off anyone who approached him.

The fits threw the household into chaos. The Nanny, and occasionally Mummy, would try to quiet Sherlock. At first they tried to soothe the screaming child, but as the fits became longer and more frequent they would increasingly turn to various forms of scolding and punishment…to no avail. Father would leave immediately often not returning until hours later. Mycroft usually observed the spectacle in silence, positioning himself close enough to Sherlock to see what was happening, but not close enough that Mummy or the Nanny would think he was _actually_ interested. Sherlock would scream and thrash and roll around, violently rejecting any attempts to calm him, and Mycroft would watch, a small, puzzled frown playing his lips. The strange swelling sensation that arose _only_ when he was interacting with Sherlock, a mixture of love, pride, and, more and more, concern, pushed him to try and discover the cause these fits and devise a practical solution. He consulted numerous books on psychology, child behavior and development, and mental disorders, all to no avail. While he was able to ascribe some of Sherlock’s behaviors and symptoms to one condition or another, nothing was _right_. There was always something that convinced Mycroft that particular disorder was not his brother’s problem. He would slam his fist on the hard, oak table whenever this occurred, furious both that he had finally discovered a problem that his mind could not unravel and that he was failing to take care of Sherlock, as he had promised.

***

Mummy planned an enormous party for Sherlock’s third birthday, complete with caterers, a bouncy castle, and an enormous stack of presents. The guest list was staggering; anyone who had remotely made the younger Holmes’ acquaintance had been invited. As he watched the event planner dash around, coordinating last minute preparations, Mycroft knew that none of this was actually _for_ Sherlock who, despite being a source of near-constant chatter, did not interact well with other children. Instead, he preferred to play by himself, often digging up plants and insects and observing them in undisguised wonder. Recently, Mycroft noted with pride, he had even taken to drawing his specimens on as accurately as possible with a pencil (cra-ans too thick!) he snapped when the Nanny had offered him a set of 120 Crayola crayons. No, the elaborate festivities were not intended for Sherlock but for the Wilson family, a very well respected and wealthy family (even by the Holmes’ standards) that had just moved into the neighborhood. Their daughter was roughly Sherlock’s age. Mycroft scowled at the extravagant scene. Mummy was obviously trying to make a favorable impression, at her son’s expense, but he quickly replaced it with a gracious smile as guests began to trickle in.

***

It was not until nearly everyone had taken their seats that Mummy noticed that Sherlock was not there. “That silly boy,” she chirped as the other parents smiled appreciatively and the children rolled their eyes in boredom, eager for the cake and games “Always so forgetful...Mycroft dear,” she fixed him with her nervous smile, “go find him won’t you...we’ll go ahead and start, we don’t want to keep everyone waiting,” she concluded with a quick glance at the Wilsons.  Mycroft nodded and got up from the table, happy to leave the babbling, inane party behind, even if it was to chase after his brother.

***

It did not take long. Sherlock was kneeling in one of the flowerbeds, prodding what Mycroft suspected to be a rather large worm. “Sherlock!” he called.

Sherlock looked up and smiled, “Look My!” he called, “Worm!” he held it up for Mycroft to see.

“Very nice, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, forcing himself to smile, “But we have to go to the party now...you forgot!”

His grin vanishing, Sherlock returned his attention to the dirt, “Didn’t fo-get,” he said.

“Then why aren’t you there?” Mycroft asked, drawing up next to the smaller boy.

Sherlock prodded the worm moodily, “S’not for me.”

Mycroft’s heart sank, _he knows,_ _somehow he knows the party’s not for him._ “Sherlock,” he said, a little softer. The boy looked up at him, his blue-gray eyes stubborn, sad, and....perceptive. Quickly abandoning any hope of lying to the boy, Mycroft said, “I know, but it will make Mummy very happy if you’re there.”

Sherlock stuck out his lips, “It’s _my_ birday,” he said petulantly, “Mummy suppose to make _me_ happy.”

Mycroft sighed, “I know, Sherlock.” He cast his mind about, trying to think of some other way to convince his incredibly stubborn brother to willingly attend the festivities, “It’ll make me happy,” he said desperately.

To his surprise, Sherlock hesitated, considering this. Using the delay to his advantage, Mycroft quickly continued, “And if you’re _very_ good the _whole_ time, I’ll show you a big book with pictures of all sorts of different kinds of worms.”

Sherlock’s face brightened, “Prah-mis,” he said.

“I promise,” Mycroft affirmed, “But _only_ if you’re good the _whole_ time. Do you promise?”

“I prah-mis,” Sherlock said happily.

Mycroft smiled, “Good.” He held out his hand, and Sherlock took it, his pale fingers clinging to Mycroft’s thumb. The Elder Holmes brushed the dirt of Sherlock’s suit the best he could and led Sherlock to the party.

***

To Mycroft’s mild indignation, the festivities were well under way when the two brothers arrived. He looked down at Sherlock. The young boy’s eyes were very, very wide. Sherlock looked from the big tables, where the adults were talking and laughing quietly as waiter’s filled cups and replaced empty platters, to the smaller tables where the children were babbling excitedly to each other. More and more of them were abandoning the pretense of eating altogether, leaving the table and running out to play on the wide grassy lawn or in the bouncy castle. Sherlock then looked over at the heaping pile of presents with a dozen different types of wrapping paper before looking back at the adults table, the children’s table, the field, the presents; his grip on Mycroft’s thumb was painfully tight.

Then Sherlock screamed, a loud, piercing cry that grated against Mycroft’s ears and instantly silenced the entire party. Releasing Mycroft’s hand, Sherlock fell to the ground, covering his eyes and rolling back and forth, his screams growing higher in volume and pitch.

“What did you do?” Mummy demanded, rushing up to them, her face ashen with fear-not for Sherlock, Mycroft knew, but for herself, the embarrassing episode that was unfolding before the entire party and would undoubtedly instigate months of gossip.

Mycroft fixed his mother was a cold glare, “Nothing,” he said, “As you know.”

Mummy blinked, properly abashed, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Wilson approached, surveying the screaming Sherlock with a single, critical, raised eyebrow, “Are these tantrums common?” she asked haughtily.  Instantly distracted, Mummy turned and tried to explain Sherlock’s fits in the way that would rouse the least social criticism. The other mothers were approaching now, forming a rough circle around Mycroft and Sherlock, their faces wearing expressions ranging from pity to disgust.

“Does he need a doctor?” one woman tittered.

“No,” another replied, “He’s just trying to draw attention to himself.”

“Is he autistic?” another whispered loudly.

They continued to cluck and gossip among themselves until Mycroft felt he was drowning in the inane debate. Sherlock’s shrieks were becoming, if possible, louder, as if he were trying to overpower the pointless chatter with his screams.

Then, all at once, Mycroft understood. How had he not realized it before? Without another thought, he undid his tie and knelt down next to Sherlock. Then, with considerable difficulty, Mycroft tied the tie around Sherlock’s eyes, ignoring the outraged cries of the women, Mummy included. Sherlock, however, did not seem to mind. If anything, his cries became slightly less piercing as he clapped his tiny hands over his ears instead of trying to cover both his eyes and ears at once. Mycroft stood and picked the still-fighting Sherlock up, pressing him tightly against his chest to keep the toddler from wriggling out of his grasp.  He marched up to the house, barely noticing the hordes of eyes that followed him. They were irrelevant. All that mattered now was making Sherlock better, and Mycroft _finally_ knew what to do.  A maid opened the door him as he approached, “Everything alright, sir?” she asked faintly.

“Fine,” Mycroft snapped.

For a moment it looked like the maid might object, but something in the Elder Holmes’ expression seemed to make her think better of it. Instead, she nodded and stepped back. Sherlock’s screams had regained their desperate edge, so Mycroft quickened his pace and headed toward the staircase, not even bothering to respond when his father shouted from the den, “What’s that _brat_ done now!”

Mycroft sighed in relief as he finally reached Sherlock’s room, and then frowned at the mess of clothing, books, toys, and other random objects that covered the floor like a second carpet. This would not do at all. Laying his still-screaming brother on the bed, Mycroft turned his attention to the closet. It was small and square, but perhaps, the Elder Holmes mused, that would be better. Kicking aside the objects blocking the closet door, Mycroft opened it and peered inside. As he suspected, the closet was nearly empty, containing only a few of Sherlock’s clothes, shoes, and a small, blue blanket. Even better.

Pausing only to unceremoniously throw the clothing and shoes out into the room at large, Mycroft picked up Sherlock, whose lungs were still operating at full strength, carried him into the closet, and silently closed the door.

“Sherlock,” he said in a low, calm voice as he removed his tie from the boy’s face, “Sherlock it’s alright, just take a deep breathe.”

This did nothing to ease his brother’s hysterical screams. If anything, they seemed louder.

_Talking didn’t help before_ , Mycroft berated himself. _Of course it won’t now,_ but Sherlock clearly needed something more than dark and quiet to help calm his mind.

The answer that presented itself was simple, obvious, and somewhat distasteful. Mycroft hesitated, but sat down and seated the still-fighting Sherlock into his lap, holding him close.  He could feel the toddler’s trembling sobs. Mycroft frowned, why had he not noticed the trembling before?  It seemed the blanket would, indeed, become useful. He grabbed the small blue blanket and wrapped it around the younger Holmes. Sherlock gripped the edges of the fabric with his tiny fingers and pulled it tighter around him. Mycroft nodded in satisfaction. “Close your eyes,” he murmured.

Sherlock paused mid-shriek, snapped his eyes shut, and continued screaming. However, his cries were a little more muted now. It took ten minutes for the screams to become low, heaving sobs. Still gripping the blanket, Sherlock twisted around until his cheek came to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. Surprised by the gesture, Mycroft hugged his brother a little tighter and buried his face in Sherlock’s curls, _my poor, poor brother_ , he thought, _we were so stupid…we should have realized..._ No. There was no _we_ Mycroft remembered wearily. No one else could understand or take care of Sherlock…just him. _I should have realized sooner,_ he thought, hugging his brother a little tighter, _I should have known that you had a fit whenever your mind was receiving too much information…to many sights, too many sounds, to many thoughts bouncing around your little brain. Of course they make you scream; you want to drown them out. I was stupid, stupid,_ stupid.

 A new and far more terrible type of aloneness assaulted Mycroft. He did not mind being the different one, the clever one, anymore…he had Sherlock. But how to care for the screaming toddler… _alone?_ This was not mere loneliness, Mycroft knew…this was _fear_ , fear that, despite being brilliant, he would fail Sherlock _._ Mycroft buried his face in his brother’s dark curls. _How will I do this?_ A few, traitorous tears slid slowly down his cheeks.

Suddenly the space was flooded with garish light. The sudden disturbance threw Sherlock back into hysterics, and Mycroft held him still tighter, glaring at the disturber. Mummy was standing in the doorway, her blue-grey eyes fraught with uncertainty.

“Go back to the party, Mother,” Mycroft ordered. _Get out you silly, inept women,_ he was really saying as his fear suddenly transformed into determination, _because I_ am _going to care for Sherlock since you cannot. Even if I have to do it alone._

Of course she did not understand. “But...” she spluttered, “What...is he...?”

“Tell them that Sherlock his feeling unwell,” Mycroft commanded in a cold voice that made Mummy step back in alarm, “And return the party.... _now._ ”

Mummy opened her mouth to speak. Mycroft glared at her, his mouth a grim line that dared her to disobey him.  _Leave now,_ he thought, _Sherlock is my first priority. I will do whatever it takes to care for him, and damn what it does to anyone else. Even you._

Mummy’s blue-grey eyes, the same color as Sherlock’s, but lacking his intelligence, widened. She stumbled back a little more, nodding as she did. Just this once, she understood. Still nodding like bobble head, she shut the door, dousing the brothers once again in darkness.

Mycroft buried his face back in Sherlock’s curls. The toddler’s screams were desperate again; it took another fifteen minutes for the screams to settle into heaving sobs, and another ten for the sobs to ease into deep, steady breaths.  Mycroft sighed in relief, satisfied that the younger Holmes was finally asleep. With some difficulty and no small amount of protestation from his stiff legs, Mycroft got to his feet, still holding Sherlock, and exited the closet. He laid Sherlock on his bed, removed his shoes, and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. His brother released a small, soft sigh of contentment. Mycroft smiled, despite himself. He was alone, to be sure, but there was something…remarkable…about this aloneness that made it not so lonely after all. He laid a hand on Sherlock’s curls. “You are, and always will be, my first priority,” he whispered to the sleeping toddler. Then, with a final glance at his brother, he left the room, closing the door silently behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is why it was worth it.

Sherlock woke two hours later, but Mycroft did not return him to the party, opting instead to settle the three-year-old comfortably in the library with a notebook, pencil, and the promised book of worms, which the boy gleefully accepted. It was another two hours before Mummy stumbled wearily into the parlor after seeing off the last of the guests.  “How did it go?” he asked calmly, not bothering to look up from his book on famous political scandals. The book was intriguing, but failed to adequately distract Mycroft from the single, terrifying question that had been plaguing him the entire afternoon: _How I am going to care for Sherlock?_

“Well enough,” Mummy sighed, sinking into the couch, “I told them that Sherlock had a headache and stomach cramps, but that he would feel better once he had a nap.”

Mycroft nodded. It was a believable enough story, and Mummy undoubtedly delivered it impeccably; she was flawless in her handling of social graces. He was preparing to return to his book when Mummy asked, hesitantly, “How’s Sherlock?”

The question made Mycroft’s stomach twist uncomfortably again. _How?_ he wondered desperately. He did not allow the emotions to reflect in his features: “Fine,” he said in cool, clipped tone that added a silent _No thanks to you._

Mummy did not respond, so Mycroft turned the page and continued reading about the follies of Richard Nixon.

“Please tell me what happened.”

The words came out of his mother’s mouth in a rush, half begging, and half demanding. Mycroft glanced up. His mother was, as he had assumed, slumped lazily on the couch, but her eyes were blazing with rare, but formidable, intensity. Mycroft surveyed her critically. She clearly _wanted_ to know, she clearly _cared._ But could she ever possibly _understand?_

Seeing his reluctance, Mummy continued, “Look, Mycroft,” she said, “We both know that you are incredibly gifted. You are without a doubt far cleverer than your father or I,” she glanced at the Bible-sized book in Mycroft’s hands, “And I also know that you have been watching Sherlock very carefully for months, especially during his fits.” She smiled at the flicker of surprise that flitted across Mycroft’s features, “Yes, I have noticed,” she said, “And I also know that you have been consulting every book on psychology, child development, and mental disorders that you can lay your hands on to try and help him.” Another surprise, but Mycroft did not allow himself to show it this time. Mummy took a deep breathe, “And I know that today you figured it out, and you figured it out how to help him....by putting him in a closet,” she frowned, clearly still puzzled by Mycroft’s response, but continued, “And now I’m asking you, Mycroft, begging you to tell me what is wrong with my son.”

Still Mycroft did not respond. Mummy was undoubtedly sincere, but he did not know if his explanation could ever satisfy her. _And it shouldn’t be_ me _telling her_ , the furious part of himself observed, _she is his mother,_ she _should have figured it out…and then I would not have to figure out how to help him by myself._

Mummy closed her eyes, “Some of the others,” she said carefully, “Suggested that Sherlock’s behavior might indicate that he has a....problem,” she finished lamely, “They were suggesting that we might want to have him examined for autism.”

“He’s not autistic,” Mycroft said calmly, turning another page of his book. He had ruled out that possibility weeks ago.

“Mycroft dear...” Mycroft jaw tightened as his mother’s tone rapidly approached condescension, “It is _okay_ if that is what it is. He is still your brother, and we will still love him no matter what.”

She was saying it more to comfort herself than him, and they both knew it.  Mycroft snapped his book shut, “Of course it is okay,” he said softly, but also unable to hide the anger in his voice, “ _Obviously_ it would be okay. I’m saying he is not autistic because it is the truth.”

They stared at each other for several long seconds, both wondering how and when Mycroft’s love had become more unconditional than Mummy’s. “I’m sorry...You’re right,” Mummy whispered, looking down at her lap, “Of course it’s okay...”  A single tear slid down her cheek, “Please,” she whispered, “I know you understand him better than I do, better than anyone does. But he is my _son_ and I _need_ to understand. What happened today?”

Mycroft surveyed his mother for several seconds. He supposed it was true. She loved Sherlock, so perhaps she could understand … even just a little. Mycroft set his book on the end table and sat up straighter, shifting his body to better face his mother. “Sensory overload,” he said simply.

Mummy blinked in surprise, “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Let me show you,” Mycroft said, getting to his feet, “I’ll be back in a moment.” He left the parlor and ran up the stairs to the library, where Sherlock was still happily examining the worm book.

“Look My!” he shouted, holding up a relatively well-draw copy of a particularly fat worm. “Very good,” Mycroft murmured as walked to the nearly un-touched shelf of children’s books and selected a couple of thin, glossy hardbacks. “Sherlock,” he said, turning back to face his younger brother.

“Yes My!” Sherlock chimed, not looking up from his book.

“I need you to come downstairs and play a game with me and Mummy,” Mycroft said smoothly.

Sherlock frowned, “Worms,” he protested.

Mycroft sighed. He supposed he might be able to convince his brother to come willingly, but it was far easier to bribe him, “I’ll give you another book with pictures of bugs if you play this game for five minutes.”

Sherlock’s frowned deepened, considering the offer, “Just five?” he repeated, holding up his five fingers in confirmation.

“Yes Sherlock.”

“Deal!” the younger Holmes said brightly.

“Good,” Mycroft crossed over to the table, picked up Sherlock with one arm while holding the books in the other, and returned to the parlor.

“Okay Sherlock,” Mycroft said, sitting next to Mummy and placing the toddler on his lap. “We’re going to play a game called “Where’s Waldo?” he held up one of the books. Mummy frowned in confusion, but did not say anything, “I’m going to show you a picture and you have to find this man,” he tapped the picture of the man in red and white striped shirt on the cover, “As fast as possible...okay?”

Sherlock sighed, clearly dubious about the potential enjoyment to be derived from the activity, “Ookaay.”

Mycroft opened the book to the first scene, a crowded carnival with over hundred different people in various poses, “Where’s Waldo?” Mycroft asked.

“There!” Sherlock cried almost instantly, pointing at a spot to the right of the cotton-candy machine. Mummy blinked in surprise, “How’d you do that so fast?” she asked in her baby-voice.

Sherlock frowned, “I _looked_.”

“Oh,” Mummy murmured as Mycroft turned the page. This time the book depicted a crowded shopping center, “Where’s-?”

“There!” Sherlock shouted, pointing out the figure in front of a pet shop. He swiveled around to face Mycroft, ignoring Mummy’s murmured “My heavens!”

 “This boo-ring!” he declared.

“You’re right,” Mycroft agreed. “This time I’m going to have you look at the page for forty-five seconds, and then I’m going to close the book, and I want you to tell me everything you saw in the picture.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said sullenly, his patience clearly wearing thin. Mycroft turned the page, it was a park scene this time, and looked down at his watch, keeping time as Sherlock’s eyes flitted over the page.

“Ok,” Mycroft said, closing the book after forty-five seconds had passed, “Now tell me everything you saw.”

“Weeelll firs dere was a gramma with gray hair and a blue dress, and next to her was her gran-son,” he stumbled a little over the word, “With blue pants and a red shirt and he had a kite that was red too. And then there was a bench with two girls with yeyyo hair and they both had lollies and next to them was a dog, but he didn’t have a lolli. And next to the dog was a boy with blue pants and a brown shirt and next to him was Waldo...you know what he looks like... and next to _him_ was...”

“Yes, thank you dear,” Mummy said faintly, “Why don’t you go run off and play now?”

“But I’m not dun yet,” Sherlock protested.

“But you don’t want to leave your worm book too long,” Mycroft said, “You were in the middle of your diagram.”

Sherlock paused, considering this for a moment, before he nodded and slid off Mycroft’s lap. “Don’ foget bugs!” he said gravely, pointing at Mycroft.

“I promise,” Mycroft assured him. Satisfied by this, Sherlock turned and ran back up the stairs.

“How did he _do_ that?” Mummy breathed once Sherlock was out of sight. She was very pale, and her eyes lingered on the stairs where Sherlock had just been as if she had seen a ghost instead of her son. 

“He observes everything, Mummy,” Mycroft explained, “His mind is able to take in enormous amounts of information, retain minute details, and his mind can process this information at an incredible rate.”

“He’s very clever,” Mummy breathed, “Like you.”

“But don’t you _see_ ,” Mycroft pressed, “He’s still just a three-year-old! Can you even imagine what it must be like having so much information assaulting your mind all at once, all the time…So many ideas bouncing around your head...it’s _maddening_ , and sometimes he simply can’t cope, so he shuts down.”

“The fits?” Mummy frowned, “but why...he is so loud…”

“He’s trying to drown out the information, Mummy!” Mycroft said impatiently, “Covering his eyes and ears, screaming as loud as he can, he’s trying to block out any sensory information to try and quiet the madness in his mind!” _And how am I supposed to him?_ that panicked corner of his mind added desperately.

He had not meant for his voice to become so passionate; Mummy was again looking at him as if she had never seen her son before, “And the same thing happens to you,” she whispered.

Mycroft recalled the restless ideas that constantly swirled around his mind, the many nights where the chaos of his own thoughts cast away any hope for sleep, the rare occasions when he would shut himself in his room, turn off the lights, lay on his bed, close his eyes, and allow his mind to process all the information that he had put there, pushing against his brain like water against a crumbling dam.  “Something similar, yes,” he admitted, “Though not as intensely as Sherlock, I think. I hoped that by bringing him to a dark, quiet place where he would not be receiving any new information, his mind would finally have an opportunity to quiet itself... my theory worked.”

“Because you were there,” Mummy murmured.

Mycroft frowned, “Perhaps. Although, logically, it would work better if he were completely alone...”

“Mycroft Holmes that is absolute rubbish and you know it,” Mummy said sternly, “I _saw_ both of you. Sherlock was clinging to you for dear life. He needed the dark and the quiet, but he also needed _you_.  You were the one who calmed him.” She sighed, “And I was useless.”

 Not able to refute this, Mycroft said nothing.

Mummy sighed and put her head in her hands, “I do not understand, Mycroft. I know, logically, what you are trying to tell me, but I do not _understand_. I never will understand.” When Mycroft did not respond, she looked up, “And you knew that,” she said quietly, “You knew I could not possibly understand...that’s why you didn’t tell me.” Mycroft nodded stiffly, and Mummy sighed again, still keeping her head in her hands, “I have two brilliant sons whom I love with all my heart, but whom I can never possibly understand. I see the way you manipulate people, Mycroft. I don’t know how you do it, but I see it. I see the books you read, the things you study, the way you _hide_ just how smart you are from everyone, until you _want_ them to see.  I do not understand it, you know I will never be able to understand it, but I see it” She looked up and stared at Mycroft, her blue-grey eyes, so much like Sherlock’s, unusually penetrating, “I will never be the mother you need, but please believe that I love you…I love you both more than I can say.”

Mycroft nodded, and found, to his surprise, that the vague, inescapable sense of panic that had been plaguing him since he comforted Sherlock in the closet was gone now. He knew Mummy would never understand, would not be able to help, but she _cared_ …and perhaps…that was enough.

 

 

_“Mycroft dear, what a pleasant surprise!” Mycroft looked up as Mummy slowly seated herself next to him on the couch; her face was thin and wrinkled now, but the elegance and sophistication remained._

_“You should be asleep,” he said._

_She smiled at him, her blue-grey eyes, exactly the same color as Sherlock’s, twinkling merrily at him, “I am an old woman,” she said, “I have plenty of time to sleep, but it is not often that one of my sons visits me.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Mycroft lied._

_“Don’t be,” Mummy said, though Mycroft knew she saw through the deception, “I know you are both very busy.” She glanced down at the book in Mycroft’s hands, “Why Mycroft!” she said, “You, looking at a photo album...I’m shocked!”_

_“Just passing the time,” Mycroft said vaguely. He tapped the photograph of him and Sherlock in the closet, “I didn’t know you had this,” he said, keeping his voice even with difficulty._

_“Yes,” Mummy admitted guiltily, “I had the camera in my hand when I was looking for you, because of the party, you know, and when I opened the door and saw you...you were both holding each other so tightly… I had never seen either of you behave so affectionately...it was ...adorable, so I took a picture, without really thinking about it. That was before I understood was happening of course...” She gave him a swift, piercing glance, “I never showed it to anyone,” she said, “Not even your father.” Mycroft nodded, but did not respond. “I still have them keep the closet that way,” Mummy continued, “No clothes inside, blanket on the floor...everything.”_

_On any other night, Mycroft would have rolled his eyes at such a pointless, sentimental gesture. Tonight, however, he felt a stupid urge to go and look at the place where he and Sherlock had spent so many hours._

 

The next time Sherlock had a fit, Mycroft did not hesitate. He scooped the screaming Sherlock up in his arms, carried him up to his room, wrapped him in the blue blanket, and sat with him in the closet, holding him tight until the screaming and sobbing subsided.  When Mycroft emerged from Sherlock’s room half an hour later, Mummy was waiting. She gave him a small, anxious smile _Is he alright now?_ Mycroft nodded, and Mummy’s shoulders sagged in relief, _Thank you_ her eyes said. Mycroft nodded.

It soon became a ritual that the entire household, aside from father, who snorted about “spoiled brats” whenever the echoes of Sherlock’s screams found their way into the den, treated with sanctity. If Sherlock started to cry, someone would run for Mycroft. Sometimes Mummy would watch as Mycroft carried Sherlock up the stairs and into his room, a small smile, grateful, but a sad, playing her lips. Sometimes she would not. She gave the maids strict orders to never keep anything, except the blue blanket, in the closet, and she never tried to interfere with anything that Sherlock said or did…not if Mycroft was there to take care of it. Mycroft found he did not mind.

A few months after the birthday party, Sherlock dashed into Mycroft’s room. The Elder Holmes looked up from his homework, a scathing scolding already on his lips, when he saw his brother’s wide, frantic eyes. Recognizing an impending fit, Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and carried him into the closet, holding him until his brother’s sharp, panicked breaths calmed, and his grip on the blanket eased.

“Good job, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured into his brother’s ear, “An _excellent_ job.”

Sherlock pulled away a little to face his brother, “Really?” he said, and in the darkness Mycroft could just make out his wide, eager smile.

“Yes, an outstanding job,” Mycroft confirmed, “And Sherlock, you can do that any time. If you _ever_ feel like you are going to have a fit, you can find me, and we will go in the closet no matter what I am doing.”

“Anytime?” Sherlock confirmed.

“Anytime,” Mycroft assured.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck and squeezed him tightly, “Thank you My!” he shouted. He hesitated, “You’re _my_ My,” he said happily.

“That’s right,” Mycroft agreed. He disapproved of gibberish or nicknames, even Mummy was not allowed to call him anything besides ‘Mycroft’, but then again, everything was different for Sherlock. “I’m always going to be your My.”

“Prahmis?” Sherlock said gravely.

“Promise,” Mycroft said. His vow on the day of the birthday party echoed through his mind, _my number one priority._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you!! :)


	4. Palaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter that explains the title! Yea!

_“Do you want to keep looking?” Mummy’s words snapped Mycroft’s mind to the present._

_“What?” he murmured, “Ah, yes...may as well.”_ Better than telling you the real reason I’m here, _he thought_ _._

_They flipped through the album with its seemingly endless catalogue of Christmas’, birthday parties, and summer holidays. Occasionally Mummy would smile and bring up a random memory associated with a photograph, and Mycroft would nod and turn the page without comment. These photographs did not mean anything. They were idiotic lies where Father was present, Mummy was in control, and he and Sherlock were normal. Their real childhood had no physical record, nor did Mycroft’s favorite memories: reading books that were supposedly far too advanced for either of their ages, playing pirates on the back lawn, Sherlock crawling into Mycroft’s bed when he could not sleep, both of them reading in comfortable silence when insomnia gripped them both, sitting on a park bench, deducing the secrets of random passer-byes, vicious games of chess, Mycroft holding the young boy close in the silent closet until Sherlock finally calmed the countless thoughts coursing through his mind. “Thank you my My,” the boy would sometimes whisper before slipping away to study his books or search for small animals in the woods or run, hollering through the lawn with a wooden sword…_

_“His first day of school,” Mummy murmured with a small frown, pausing at a picture of Mycroft and Sherlock standing outside the house in their school uniforms. Mycroft has his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders, his calm, collected smile a sharp contrast to Sherlock’s anxious frown. Neither Mycroft nor Mummy smiled fondly at the picture._

 

 

Mycroft was anxious when Sherlock began school; he just knew how to hide it. It was painfully obvious that Sherlock did not get on well with other children. They bored him, and he intimidated them. He was too smart, too independent, to be at school, but Father would not hear of hiring tutors or allowing Sherlock to skip grades. Worse, Mycroft feared that the new environment, which was overwhelming to the most insipid of children, would prove too much for the young boy, and Mycroft could not be there to hold him in the closet.

            The Elder Holmes’ worst fears proved correct when, just after entering his history class the period after lunch, Mycroft had been called to the front office. Knowing instinctively this had something to do with Sherlock, Mycroft broke into a run the moment he was out of the classroom, arriving, albeit out of breath, in barely two minutes.

            “Mycroft!” the secretary said in surprise, taking in the panting, clearly flustered, elder Holmes brother.

            “Where is he?” Mycroft demanded.

            The Secretary, Ms. Tibble--recently divorced, two children, just moved in with her doting mother--looked surprised, “How did you...”

            Fighting hard not to scream at the utter stupidity of this woman, Mycroft’s voice nevertheless carried a trace of fury, “Where is he?”

            “The nurse’s office,” Ms. Tibble whispered faintly, “He had some sort of fit...falling on the floor and screaming your name...had a right hard time moving him here...called your Mum and she said you could sort it...”

            “Right,” Mycroft said, certain the secretary would be able to provide no further information. He turned and strode to the nurse’s office. He opened the door and found, as he expected, a screaming Sherlock writhing on the floor while the nurse crouched awkwardly beside him, barely close enough to reach out with her hand and pat one of his shoulders, “There, there,” she said, clearly at a loss, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

            “MY!!!!” Sherlock howled, though Mycroft was certain the boy had not actually seen him.

            “Out,” Mycroft ordered without preamble.

            The nurse looked up, “Mycroft Holmes, I presume?”

            “That is correct,” Mycroft said, “and I would much appreciate it if you would leave us, so I may look after my younger brother.”

            “You understand what is happening then?” the nurse asked with pursed lips.

            “Yes.”

            “Well then I must insist you explain what is going on,” the nurse said as Sherlock screamed still louder.

            “I think not. Now if you will please leave us in peace, it will take me at least fifteen minutes to calm him down.”

            “If he has some mental disorder we are not aware of...”

            That was the last straw, “No, he does not,” Mycroft hissed, his voice becoming low and dangerous, “If you have any further questions, feel free to discuss them with our lawyers. Now leave!”

            Her mouth open in shock and, Mycroft was satisfied to see, a trace of fear, the nurse stood and stumbled out of the room. Without hesitation, Mycroft seated himself on the floor and pulled his younger brother into a hug. Sherlock did not stop crying, but he rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and threw his tiny arms around his brother’s neck.  After fifteen minutes of gradually quieter sobs, Mycroft finally spoke, “Was the classroom overwhelming?”

            He felt Sherlock nod against his shoulder, “There were eight girls and six boys, besides me, and there were twelve different colors of paper on the walls, and a bookshelf with 142 books, and I could remember all of the titles, and I could remember what every person was wearing and what each of their backpacks looked like and what they had for lunch, and what the photographs on the teacher’s desk looked like and...” he buried his face in his brother’s shoulder. Mycroft frowned; it had been worse than he feared, and though their family’s considerable influence would allow these fits to go unnoticed for a little while, Mycroft knew it would only be so long before the school would force Sherlock out.

            “Sherlock,” he said quietly, pulling the younger Holmes away from him so that he could meet his younger brother’s eyes. “Sherlock, I am sorry, but you cannot do this again.”

            Sherlock frowned, “I don’t try to My,” he pouted, “It just _happens_.”

            Mycroft sighed, “I know Sherlock, but if you do this at school again the teachers are going to think you are ill and they will not allow you to come to school anymore.”

            Frowning, Sherlock said, “But I don’t wanna go to school...it’s _boring_.”

            “I know it is, Sherlock, but Mummy and Daddy are going to force you to go to _a_ school. The question is, do you want to go to my school or a different one?”

            Finally understanding what his older brother was implying, Sherlock’s eyes widened, “Yours!” he said shrilly.

            “I thought so,” Mycroft said, “Which means you cannot have any of these fits at school.”

            “But I can’t _help_ it My!” Sherlock said, close to panic now.

            “I know,” Mycroft sighed, “I know, I know...” He paused, scouring his mind for a solution to their dilemma. The answer hit him all at once. If Sherlock was as intelligent as Mycroft thought he was, he should be able to do it.  “Sherlock,” he said firmly, gripping the thin boy’s shoulders, “I need you to think about one of things you saw in the classroom today.”

            “Why?” Sherlock frowned stubbornly.

            “I’m going to teach you a way to erase any memories you do not want to have,” Mycroft said. It was a technique he had taught himself in the third grade, and it seemed Sherlock would need it sooner. He paused, trying to think of the best way to demonstrate the method, “You said there was a bookshelf with lots of books on it.”

            “142,” Sherlock supplied.

            “Right,” Mycroft said, “I want you to picture just one of those books in your mind.”

            “Which one?”

            “It does not matter...choose any of them.”

            Sherlock closed his eyes, “Goldilocks,” he said finally.

            “Perfect,” Mycroft said, “Now I want you to delete the book.”

            “What?” Sherlock asked, still keeping his eyes closed.

            Mycroft sighed, “Imagine you are throwing the book in the rubbish bin, and do not think about it anymore. Forget it on purpose.”

            “You can do that?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

            “I do it all the time,” Mycroft said, “It is a bit tricky at first, but we will practice. Now I want you to try.”

            Sherlock scrunched up his eyes, “Delete!” he shouted happily. Mycroft rolled his eyes: trust his brother to make everything melodramatic. Sherlock opened his eyes, “I did it!” he said, grinning at his brother.

            “Very good,” Mycroft smiled, “Now try it again.”

            They practiced for another fifteen minutes, deleting the entire shelf of books one by one, along with the patterns on the carpet, the phrases on each of the posters, the description of the children’s shoes, and, Sherlock announced with a flourish, his teacher’s name.”

            Mycroft sighed, “You should probably remember that.”

            Sherlock opened his eyes in surprise, “Why? She is boring and silly. She talks to us like we are babies.”

            “I know,” Mycroft said, “But you have to remember anyway because you are going to see her every day.”

            “Fine My,” Sherlock sighed. He frowned, “What is her name again?”

            “Miss Barnestone,” Mycroft supplied.

            “Miss Barnestone,” Sherlock repeated. He sighed, “Are you going to send me back now?”

            “Yes,” Mycroft said, “But remember what we have been practicing. It is still going to be overwhelming, especially at first, but this should make it so you can at least last through the day, and if you need to, we can sort the rest of the thoughts out in the closet when we get home.”

            Sherlock nodded, then cocked his head, peering curiously at Mycroft, “The closet is very special.”

            “Yes,” Mycroft said, more softly than he intended, “It is extremely special.”

            “Then we should not call it a closet,” Sherlock said, as if this were obvious, “Closets are _bo-ring_!”

            “Oh really,” Mycroft smiled, “Then what should we call it?”

            Sherlock pondered this for a moment before his face lit up, “A palace!” he chimed, “Palaces are special... _no one_ here has a palace.”

            “Palace it is, then,” Mycroft agreed, not bothering to tell Sherlock that members of the Royal Family did, in fact, attend their school.

            “I will meet you in our palace after school then?” Sherlock whispered conspiratorially.

            Smiling despite himself, Mycroft nodded, “If you go to class right now and behave the rest of the time.”

            “Ok,” Sherlock sighed, getting to his feet. Mycroft also stood, and, taking Sherlock’s hand, accompanied him out of the nurse’s office. The nurse was whispering conspiratorially with the secretary when the boys emerged. She jumped as she heard the door open, and her guilty expression left Mycroft with little doubt of whom they were discussing.

            “Are you feeling better dear,” she said, giving Sherlock a false smile.

            Naturally, Sherlock noticed the ruse, “Yes, thank you,” he said sourly “My’s going to take me back to class now.”

            The nurse blinked in surprise, “You’re sure? Do you think you want to go home?”

            Sherlock snuck a glance at Mycroft, who shook his head gently, “No,” Sherlock said calmly.

            “Alright then,” the nurse said hesitantly, “But feel free to let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

            “I will,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft instantly recognized the lie, though he was sure the nurse had not. He smiled approvingly.

            “I will just take him back to class, if you do not mind,” he said calmly.

            “Yes...alright...” the secretary chimed in, “I’ll ring both of your teachers, so you won’t receive detentions.”

            “Thank you,” Mycroft said. He turned to go. Sherlock, still clutching his hand, trailed after.

            “I called your Mum again,” the secretary said, “Asked if she wanted to come by. She just said that there was no need, that she knew you had your priorities in order.”

            Mycroft’s face tightened. She was clearly fishing for an explanation, another idle snippet of gossip the administrators collected like gems, “Yes, I imagine she did,” he said, and left without another word, Sherlock in his wake.

           

The rest of the day passed without incident. It was clear none of Mycroft’s coursework would not be difficult, and he was confident he would be able to form a number of fruitful associations with a number of his classmates and teachers.  Because of this, the elder Holmes was feeling particularly pleased with himself as the chauffeur picked him and Sherlock up from the front of the school. “I made this during drawing time” Sherlock said, thrusting a paper onto his brother’s lap. Mycroft picked it up. There were no pictures on the paper. Instead his brother had written with black crayon in his large, forceful scrawl:

Sherlock and My’s Palace

NO TRESPASSING

 

That warm tingling sensation that Mycroft only associated with Sherlock came with a vengeance: “I like it,” Mycroft smiled, “Do you want to hang it on the door?”

Sherlock nodded and stared out the window. It was not until then that Mycroft noticed the frown tugging at his brother’s features. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong but, remembering the chauffeur, decided to wait until he and Sherlock were safely in their Palace.

Mycroft helped Sherlock tape the sign up on the closet door and then seated himself inside, keeping the light on this time, as his brother’s mind seemed calm enough. Sherlock wrapped himself in the blanket and settled himself in Mycroft’s lap without a word. Mycroft held him for several minutes before asking quietly, “What’s wrong?”

“They called me a freak,” Sherlock whispered, clearly struggling to hold back tears, “They said I talked funny and screamed like a banshee and I was a freak and I tried and tried to delete the things they said, but they wouldn’t go away!”

Mycroft sighed heavily, fighting hard to maintain his composure as fury and regret surged through him in equal measures. The bullying, he knew, was inevitable, but he had hoped it would not begin the first day. “It will be alright,” he sighed.

Sherlock swiveled around in Mycroft’s lap and turned to face him, his thin face red with anger and hurt, “No it will _not_ be alright!” he shouted, “Because they will always think that is what I am because they are right and I am a freak and that is why cannot I make that word go _away!”_

“No,” Mycroft said firmly; he would not allow Sherlock to think that way: “You cannot make the word go away because you care that they said those things.” Sherlock’s frown grew deeper, but he said nothing, “Listen, Sherlock,” Mycroft said seriously, “Do not care about what any of those people say because they are stupid and frightened of someone as clever as you.” He hesitated, “And caring is never an advantage. If you do not care, they will not ever be able to hurt you...do you understand?”

With only a slight hesitation, Sherlock nodded and laid his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft absentmindedly stroked his fingers through his brother’s curls, thinking vaguely of nurses, mothers, paper signs, tiny palaces…in essence, of Sherlock. The overwhelming _sentiment_ was both unsettling yet strangely pleasant.

“My?” The boy’s curly head popped up again, and he surveyed Mycroft curiously, a puzzled frown tugging at his lips.

Desperately hoping that he would not have to navigate yet another channel of complicated emotions, Mycroft sighed, “Yes Sherlock?”

“If I can delete things in my mind on purpose, how do I make sure I keep what I _want_ to remember?”

Pleased both at Sherlock’s logic, and the fact that they were leaving the imprecise realm of _emotions,_ Mycroft smiled. “It is quite simple, actually. Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes!” Sherlock piped. He climbed out of Mycroft’s lap and sat next to him on the floor, his eyes burned with excited intensity; he was ready to learn.

“First, close your eyes.”

“That is silly!” Sherlock pouted.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Do you want to learn or not?”

“Fiiine,” Sherlock drawled and closed his eyes. Mycroft followed suit, it was easier to explain if he was doing it himself, “Now, imagine a building?”

“What kind of building?”

“Any kind, it does not matter,” Mycroft’s own “memory-house” resembled the Houses of Parliament, but he knew that would not interest his younger brother.

Sherlock’s answer was immediate, “A Palace!”

Surprised, Mycroft opened his eyes for a fraction of a second and glanced in surprise at Sherlock; the small boy’s grin was positively _giddy_ now. Snapping his eyes shut again, Mycroft continued, “Good, now think of something that you never want to forget.”

“My snake catalogue!” Sherlock chimed.

Repressing the urge not to open his eyes again simply to roll them, Mycroft instead said, “Fine. Now imagine you are putting your entire snake catalogue in one room of your Palace.”

“Can I make the room look however I want?”

“Yes, Sherlock. That is the point.”

“Good!” They fell into silence for another minute before Sherlock said, “Done!”

“Good,” Mycroft murmured, not bothering to open his eyes (he had some cataloguing of his own to do), “Now think of something else.”

“My!”

“What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock did not reply. Scowling, Mycroft opened his eyes, expecting to find his younger brother glaring at him for not answering his unspoken question, but Sherlock’s eyes were still clamped shut, that same, strange, giddy smile still engraved in his features. It was as if he was not asking for Mycroft’s attention at all. Mycroft frowned. They why had Sherlock…

Oh.

He had told Sherlock to think of something else; he had never thought it would be him. That was not how Sherlock worked.

 Or so Mycroft had thought.

“Done!” Sherlock said brightly, “You are right. That is easy. I am going to go look for more snakes now,” and before Mycroft could say or do anything, Sherlock was gone, dashing outside in search of new adventures.

But Sherlock had wanted to remember _him_ …forever.

            That swelling sensation that Mycroft felt _only_ for Sherlock was stronger than it had ever been, those words that he _only_ associated with his brother--love, protectiveness, caring-- were more overpowering than ever. Mycroft closed his eyes and journeyed to his own Memory Parliament. For once, he wanted to preserve this specific memory, not research or secrets or connections, this moment forever. He was only mildly surprised to find that his “Memory House of Parliament” now more closely resembled Buckingham Palace.

Strange...this caring…

Mycroft stood, stretched, and strode out of the closet-- he did have other things to attend to after all--but paused and glanced back at the sign now hanging on the door.

My and Sherlock’s Palace

NO TRESPASSING

Strange how well the name fit.

“Almost never an advantage,” he murmured before striding out of the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed. Thank you for reading :)


	5. Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's relationship with Sherlock unravels, but that does not mean anyone is allowed to lay a finger on his baby brother.

Sherlock stopped trusting Mycroft the moment he left for University. Mycroft had sat with the eleven-year-old in their Palace for a long time. Even though it had been years since Sherlock had experienced a fit, they still sometimes retreated there. Sometimes they would talk, more often they would argue, because arguing was far more interesting than simply talking. Usually though, they would simply sit in companionable silence, sometimes while they read or studied, but often they would do nothing, relishing in a few, brief moments of quiet. Sherlock’s sign still hung on the door, the only trace that he had ever been anything besides a brilliant, unsentimental preteen. This time, however, Mycroft was reminded forcefully of the three-year-old toddler. Sherlock had wrapped himself in the blue blanket and had his knees clutched to his chest; once, a tear slipped down his cheek. Neither spoke, but speech between them had long since become superfluous. Mycroft knew. _You’re the only one who understands me, My_ , Sherlock was saying, _I’ll be all alone without you, stuck with schoolmates who hate me, Father who ignores or criticizes me because he’s jealous, and Mummy who cares about me, but could never understand. What am I going to do without you My?_ _Make him sound older_

_I know_ , Mycroft was responding, _and I’m sorry, but I have to go. I will miss you too, and if you ever need me, I will be there without a question._

            _That’s not enough._ Sherlock was saying.

            Mycroft had no answer.

It was only when Father hollered his name for the fourth time that the Elder Holmes finally stood and straightened his suit. A small, thin, hand grabbed the bottom of his jacket, “Don’t,” Sherlock mumbled.

            Mycroft sighed and dropped to his haunches (with some difficulty, he was nowhere near as nimble as Sherlock). “I’m still your brother, Sherlock,” he said quietly _and the closest thing you have to a parent or a friend_ , “And I will still do everything I can to help you.” He hesitated then pulled his brother into a tight hug. Sherlock stiffened at first, they had long ago ceased all physical signs of affection, but he eventually relaxed, wrapped his arms tightly around Mycroft’s neck, and laid his head on his shoulder, just like when he  had been a toddler. Instinctively, Mycroft ran his fingers through his brother’s curls.

“MYCROFT HOLMES!” his father roared.

            Sighing at his father’s lack of tact, Mycroft pulled away, “Are you coming to see me off?” Sherlock shook his head, and Mycroft sighed again. “You will always be my first priority Sherlock,” he said quietly before turning and leaving their Palace for what he tried to deny would be the last time.

                       

***

 

            Sherlock never called Mycroft, and he never returned any of Mycroft’s calls or letters. The first time Mycroft visited from Uni, Sherlock refused to leave his room. It was not a surprise, but it hurt, nonetheless. After two days of continued silence, Mycroft finally swallowed his pride enough to trudge up to visit his brooding brother.

            “Go away!” Sherlock snapped in response to the knock on his door. Mycroft ignored this and entered the room. Sherlock was seated at his desk, pouring over a microscope. He did not acknowledge Mycroft’s presence, so the elder Holmes rotated slowly in one of the few patches of bare carpet, taking the room in. Dangerous chemicals, heavy textbooks, clothes, and objects Mycroft could not even begin to comprehend the meaning for littered every surface. A strange and alarming mixture of odors—burnt hair, formaldehyde, and Mycroft noted furiously, the faintest hint of cigarette smoke—assaulted him. Sherlock sat in the midst of it all like a disinterested god. _Perhaps that is how he sees himself_ , Mycroft thought vaguely. He glanced at the closet. The door was firmly closed, and the sign was gone. Undoubtedly, the interior of the closet now resembled the rest of the room. A strange, heavy, sinking sensation settled in Mycroft’s chest, as he understood, for the first time, how utterly betrayed Sherlock felt…and the depth of his fury.

“The sign’s gone,” he finally said, struggling keep his voice light.

            Sherlock was clearly not fooled, “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, not bothering to look up, “I needed it for an experiment.”

“With a Bunsen-burner, I’d imagine,” Mycroft hissed.

            “Something like that.”

            “Right,” Mycroft snapped. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain his impartial demeanor, “Well, I suppose there’s nothing more to say here,” because Mycroft did not grovel for anyone…even Sherlock.

            “I didn’t realize there was anything to say to begin with.”

            “Perhaps not,” Mycroft snapped. He strode to the door, hesitated and turned back to his younger brother, “But, at least get rid of the cigarettes, for your sake, not mine.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Do not try to lie to me, Sherlock,” Mycroft hissed, “You may be able to cover up the sent with these other foul odors enough to fool Mummy or the maids whenever they dare enter, but it is not enough to fool me!”

“It’s an experiment,” Sherlock said lazily, still not looking up from the microscope.

“Yes, what a lovely room for you Mind Palace,” Mycroft hissed sarcastically, “The ‘how to destroy my mind, and my body, room.”

“Mind Laboratory.”

“Your what?” Mycroft blurted before he could stop himself.

Sherlock still did not look up, but Mycroft could see the faint traces of his smirk, “Palaces are so illogical,” he said lazily, “so _dull_.”

Mycroft felt the color drain from his face. He had known Sherlock hated him, but he had hoped, eventually, that he would be forgiven. Apparently not. “Very well then,” he pulled open the door, desperate to leave the room that had so quickly transformed from an oasis to hell. He hesitated, fueled by a bitter mixture of that horrid sentiment that, even now, he could not escape, and an instinctive, Holmesian need to have the final word, “Whether you like it or not, you are still my number one priority.”

Mycroft barely had time to avoid the beaker that hurtled toward him. It shattered against the wall, and Mycroft, seeing it was no use, left his brother to his anger, solitude, and experiments.

 

 

After that, Mycroft exchanged no more than a few sentences at a time with Sherlock throughout his time at University. This did not mean, however, that Mycroft did not know what his brother was doing, thanks to the generous bribes he handed out to Sherlock’s teachers, classmates, and the household staff, as well as his expanding connections within several key government departments. Sherlock quickly discovered this, of course, and Mycroft was soon engaged in an endless game of cat-and-mouse as he struggled to find continually more inventive ways to monitor his brother, and Sherlock found new ways of avoiding them. It was undoubtedly the most difficult aspect of his work, but Mycroft found that he strangely relished it. Any interaction was better than no interaction at all.

***

 

He only stopped off at the house for a few hours after graduating from University. There was little reason to be home anymore, and besides, he already had a position as a staffer for a prominent Member of Parliament. It was hardly an extraordinary position, but Mycroft was certain he would advance quickly. He kissed his mother, shook hands with his father, and verbally sparred with Sherlock. He did notice, however, that beneath his cold, aggressive exterior, his brother looked more exhausted, more tormented than ever. Nevertheless, Sherlock would refuse his help, so Mycroft was gone again, riding off to London where a lifetime of fine wine, political jousting, and behind-the-scenes manipulation awaited him. He could hardly wait.

 

***

 

It took only a year for him to receive several promotions, an office, and a personal assistant. Mycroft allowed himself a small sigh of contentment as he surveyed the room. Hardly anyone knew his name, but that was how he preferred it, and the people who _did_ know his name, the Prime Minister, for instance, mattered. _I will soon outrank him, in my own way_ , Mycroft thought. He immediately reverted to business mode when his telephone rang. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said briskly, answering on the first ring.

“Mycroft!” Mummy’s voice fast, high-pitched, tear-chocked…panicked.

 Mycroft’s grip tightened on the phone, but he did not allow the fear that was attempting to overtake him, to sabotage his emotions, and induce rash and undoubtedly foolish reactions, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sherlock…he…do you know where he is?”

“No.” Lean forward now, he told himself, but slowly. _Yes you feel as if the world is about to fly apart, accept that fear, now delete it. Now is the time for logic, for calm. Take control_ , “What happened?”

“Oh he had an argument with your Father in front of the dinner guests, and everything was a mess and there was so much howling that they finally left without even saying goodbye to your father…he was too busy shouting with Sherlock. Then Sherlock stormed after him and I have looked and looked and I have had the staff out looking, but no one’s seen him for six hours and what if he decides not to come ho-“

“Stop!” it was not a shout as much as a growl. _Six hours!_ Mycroft thought, his mind sending him dangerously near to the realms of panic again, _Stupid woman! Do you not know six hours is plenty of time for him to be taken out of the country?_

_No, she does not_ , he told himself as he reestablished he hold on rationality, _nor should you tell her._ “I will be there shortly,” he said firmly.

“No Mycroft…” Mycroft hung up. There was not time to try and assuage Mummy’s guilt. He dialed his PA’s number, “I need a helicopter to take me to the estate,” he said firmly, “And I need a full-on manhunt searching for Sherlock. He has not been seen for six hours. Begin in London and fan out.”

“Yes sir.”

Mycroft hung up, stood, and pulled on his coat. Someone was responsible for this, and no matter Sherlock’s state, emotional or otherwise, when he was found, whoever was responsible would pay.

And Mycroft knew of punishments so much more painful than blood.

 

 

 “Mycroft!” Mummy shrieked, throwing her arms around his neck when he arrived at the house forty-five minutes later. Mycroft pushed her away; this was no time for sentiment.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Looking slightly crestfallen at his lack of affection, though Mycroft did not see why she had expected any, Mummy nodded and said in weak, sniffling voice, “The Rosebury’s came over for dinner...your father forced Sherlock to eat with us...and Sherlock got in an...argument with them...”

Mycroft withheld a groan with difficulty, “What sort of argument?”

“Oh you know how he gets!” Mummy’s tears were falling freely now, “He gets annoyed or bored or angry, and he spits out these terrible insults and deduces the entire family’s dirty secrets in front of everyone, “He was going on about affairs and prescription painkillers and tax fraud and heaven knows what else before your father finally intervened!”

Father. This is what Mycroft had feared. While the eldest Holmes viewed Mycroft with mild interest, or, in rare instances, as a trophy to show off before one business associate or another, he had rarely treated Sherlock with anything less than apathy and, more and more often, fury and dislike. Mycroft’s jaw tensed. He had never held much respect for Father. Perhaps the time had come to take action. “Where is Father?”

The man in question was, as usual, lounging in his leather armchair in the den, a glass of port in his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mycroft?” he asked as the elder Holmes entered.

“What happened to Sherlock?”

Father shrugged, “That freak,” Mycroft bristled, “insulted one of my guests for the last time. I gave him a piece of my mind, and he said he was leaving and not coming back. Good riddance.”

“And you made no effort to follow him, or call me, or file a missing person’s report.”

Father shrugged, “He will come back…eventually. He says he is so _mature_ , why should I be concerned?”

“You never bothered to make him your concern,” Mycroft said icily. Father merely shrugged and turned to grab a paper from the coffee table. It was then that Mycroft finally saw the left side of Father’s face, and, more specifically, the bruise on his left jaw.

“You fought,” Mycroft’s voice became dangerously low.  Father merely flipped open the paper. “Who threw the first punch?” Mycroft hissed. Father shifted, but still refused to respond.  It was answer enough.

“You will apologize,” Mycroft said in that same, dangerously low voice, “You will help me find Sherlock, and when we do, you will drop to your knees and _beg_ him to come home.”

“Will I?” Father said drily.

“Yes Father, the moment Sherlock gets home.”

“Sherlock does not live here any longer.”

“Oh Sherlock will live here,” Mycroft hissed, “The question is if whether you will.”

“Mycroft!” Mummy whispered. Mycroft ignored her.

The older man sneered up at him, “Look, _son_ ,” he sneered, “I know you consider yourself some kind of big shot, always thinking you are so much cleverer than everyone else, so proud for getting a piddling government job right out of Uni, but I do not care how impressive you think you are. This is _my_ house, and _no one_ is going to tell me what to do.”

“You have one more chance.”

“ _Right_ ,” Father sneered, “I think I will take my chances against my son, the _great_ Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft smirked, “Fine.” He glanced at his watch, “I estimate it will take me four and a half minutes,” and without another word, he left the den.

Four minutes and twenty-five seconds later, Mycroft returned to find his Father immersed in his paper. He cleared his throat, “You are being accused,” he said matter-of-factly, “Of tax evasion and fraud. The warrant for your arrest is being rushed through as we speak. I estimate you have forty-five minutes before the police arrive.” The paper and glass of port tumbled to the ground as his pale-faced and trembling Father starred disbelievingly at Mycroft. “All your assets are being seized and transferred to government control,” Mycroft continued, “Under my supervision.”

“You would use your connections to create false charges against me!” the man roared, jumping to his feet and turning as red as a tomato.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “My dear Father, who ever said the charges were false?”

The man instantly deflated, “How long have you known?” he whispered

“Please,” Mycroft said, chuckling despite himself, “I figured it out when I was six. Fortunately for you, my helicopter is departing for France in fifteen minutes, and it will leave again five minutes later. I suggest you are on it when it does. I will leave you enough funds in a Swiss bank account to allow you to maintain your comfortable life style, certainly enough to support your mistress in Paris.”

The man’s face now bore a striking resemblance to a tomato, “You would betray your own Father to protect some heartless freak!” he roared.

“No,” Mycroft said coldly, “I would get rid of my heartless Father to protect my only brother. Sherlock has, and always will be, my first priority.”

Father’s face drained of any color as he whirled around to face Mummy, pleading, “Dearest...”

Mummy’s eyes glinted like daggers. Mycroft remembered that she had not known about the mistress; Father could be forgiven for either his mistreatment of Sherlock or his infidelity, but not both: “I think it is time for you to go now.”

Before Father could say anything else, Mycroft’s phone buzzed. He answered it, listened to the voice on the other end, and nodded in satisfaction, “I will be right there.” Ending the call, he glanced up, “They found Sherlock.”

“Thank heavens,” Mummy gasped. Father remained silent.

“Which means,” Mycroft continued, “That I will need to commandeer the first helicopter, a second for you will be shortly behind. I am going to fetch Sherlock,” his eyes flashed dangerously, “By the time he is here, you had better be gone. Good evening, Father.” With that, he turned and strode out to the waiting helicopter.

 

***

 

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of an abandoned dock. Mycroft sniffed, despite himself. It was hardly a pleasant part of London, but that was not much of a surprise. He silently signaled the men shadowing his brother to retreat before he approached the boy and, with a slight hesitation, gingerly seated himself next to his brother on the filthy dock.

“Have you finally called your stalkers off?” Sherlock asked without bothering to look at him.

“I am surprised you did not try to leave when you first noticed them,” Mycroft said mildly.

“I did not feel like being detained,” Sherlock said with a shrug, “And they are not as hopelessly obvious as some of the men you have sent to tail me.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed mildly, “It is quickly becoming a new rite-of-passage for newer recruits...put them on the Sherlock Holmes assignment to knock the cockiness out of them.” Sherlock smirked, despite himself, but did not answer. Taking this as a good sign, Mycroft continued, “Nice punch by the way.”

Sherlock bristled, “He had it coming,” he murmured.

“I do not doubt it. Where did he hit you?”

“Right eye,” Sherlock mumbled. Mycroft glanced at him, and sure enough his brother’s eye was black and swollen, “Tried to go for my stomach, but I hit him first and ra...and left.”

Thinking that banishing Father from the country might have been _too_ kind, Mycroft said mildly, “It was a good right hook. His bruise was something to behold.”          

A ghost of a smile flitted across Sherlock’s face, the first smile Mycroft had seen in years, before it was replaced with his usual scowl, “I am not going back, Mycroft.”

“An understandable desire.”

“But not one you will consent to.”

“Where would you possibly go?”

“ _Anywhere_.”

“And what? End up homeless on the streets, frequenting places like this?” Mycroft nodded around the mangled dock.

Sherlock chuckled humorlessly, “This dock is more of a home then that manor will ever be.”

“Please, Sherlock. There is no need for melodramatics...”

“I’m not _being_ melodramatic,” Sherlock snapped, “The household staff treat me like I’m contaminated, Father shouts at or mocks me, depending on his mood, Mummy stands there like a blithering idiot who is too frightened to say anything, and everyone, _everyone_ is insipid, petty, blind, and _boring_ with all their _stupid, silly_ problems. They refuse to let me just _think,_ and my blasted head is constantly spinning with thoughts and ideas and theories and _no one_ will do anything to make it STOP!” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as a warm flush of embarrassment worked its way up his cheeks. Mycroft pretended not to notice, even though Sherlock had not said more than fifteen words at a time to him since his departure for Uni. Instead, Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath. The silence was filled with paper signs and palaces and blue blankets. For the first time in years, Mycroft felt something akin to guilt as he watched his younger brother struggle with his incredible, yet isolating, genius. That word _alone_ suddenly filled his mind again. It does not bother him, personally, now; he long learned to embrace and manipulate his perpetual loneliness to his advantage. Sherlock, however, had not. True, he had ceased to care about what most people thought: teachers, classmates, strangers on the street, but as much as his brother refused to admit it, Mycroft knew Sherlock still craved a Palace: a place where he felt safe, accepted, which is why he never had forgiven Mycroft when it had been taken from him.

Mycroft hesitated, suddenly feeling absurdly nervous. It was silly, of course… either his brother would say yes, or he would say no, “Do you want to come to London?” he asked, careful to keep his voice even, almost disinterested.

Still keeping his eyes shut, Sherlock frowned, “With you?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Sherlock’s voice was firm, even harsh, but Mycroft had not missed his brother’s slight hesitation.

Mycroft sighed, “Then I am afraid you will have to return to the estate.”

“I refuse to live in Father’s house,” Sherlock said fiercely.

Mycroft allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, “And if Father is not there?”

Sherlock snorted, “Nothing on this Earth could force Father away from that house, Mycroft. He loves it far more than either of us.”

His smile broadening into a wide grin, Mycroft said smugly, “Father is currently fleeing the country to escape arrest for tax evasion and fraud.”

A brief, satisfied smirk fluttered across Sherlock’s face, “You would risk the family’s honor...ah...” he breathed in, “Of course. You are using your connections to threaten father, and once he is gone, you will use those same connections to make the problem go away, with no one the wiser. I assume he will be leaving the country in a government helicopter.”

“It seemed the most prudent course of action.”

“A fair amount of trouble for you too,” Sherlock said, sounding delighted.

“Four-and-a-half minutes’ worth,” Mycroft shrugged.

“Job going well then,” Sherlock said. He sounded bored with his own question, but it was also the first time he had acknowledged any of Mycroft’s activities since he left for University. The Elder Holmes could hardly believe it; Father must have upset Sherlock more than he thought.

Sherlock caught his mistake immediately, “But not the diet,” he continued scathingly, “You should lay off the French pastries.”

“At least I do not have the approximate physique of a mop,” Mycroft replied, though his voice lacked any true venom.

Another flash of a smile, and then Sherlock was getting to his feet, “I suppose Father’s helicopter has had plenty of time to depart.”

With considerably more difficulty, Mycroft followed suit, “Quite enough, I should think.”

“Then I suppose we ought not to keep Mummy waiting any longer.”

“I suppose not,” Mycroft agreed, though he could not help the small twang of regret in the pit of his stomach. This was by far the longest conversation he had had with his brother in nearly five years, and he knew it could be far longer before it happened again. Nevertheless, Sherlock was already heading to the sleek limo that would take them to the waiting helicopter. Mycroft sighed and followed.

 

It was very late when the helicopter dropped them off in front of the house. Sherlock strode inside and up to his room without another word. Knowing better than to try and follow, Mycroft instead sat his mother down at the dining room table and poured them both glasses of champagne.

“Are we celebrating?” Mummy asked as she accepted her glass, her perfectly shaped eyebrow arching in surprise.

“I rather think so, yes,” Mycroft said as he sat down next to her, “I think we are all better off, do you not?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Mummy murmured, sipping from her glass. She hesitated, “Is Sherlock angry with me?”

“Not very,” Mycroft said frankly, “I doubt he has ever seen you as someone who could ever possibly protect him, so there is no way for you to disappoint him.”

“And he is right,” Mummy murmured, staring morosely at the bubbles in her glass.

Mycroft did not attempt to say otherwise, “You are, however,” he continued, “The only one he would consent to live with.”

Mummy glanced up in surprise, “You offered to have him stay with you.”

“I thought it might suit him better,” Mycroft said unapologetically.

“Perhaps you are right,” Mummy murmured, “You are the only one who is able care for him, Mycroft, and you always have been.”

“It hardly matters,” Mycroft said briskly, “He wishes to remain here.”

They sat in silence for nearly a minute. Mummy was still gazing at the bubbles in her glass and Mycroft, after a moment’s hesitation, opened the briefcase he had brought with him and started perusing a report.

“Why did you send your father away?”

Mycroft glanced up. His mother was staring at him again, her eyes were not sad or accusing, but they were unusually piercing, reminding the elder Holmes, for a brief second, of his brother. “He has been tormenting Sherlock for years,” he said, “And he finally forced me to take action that I really ought to have taken long ago. You do not hold it against me, do you?”

She shook her head, “Not at all, but that is not what I meant. Why did you send him away how you did? It was all very grand, very dramatic: the threat of arrest, the helicopter, banishing him from Britain altogether. There were a million other, far subtler, ways of getting rid of him, but you chose a way that would get a lot of attention...not from the neighbors, they will not know a thing, but from other people... _your_ people.” She gave him a wry smile, “I know you, Mycroft, you do everything for a reason, and you prefer working in shadows, so why were you so bold tonight?”

Mycroft shot his mother a wry smile, “I suppose you would not believe that I was carried away in a fit of rage because someone had dared lay a hand on my brother?”

“Oh I do not doubt you were enraged, but I do not think you have allowed your emotions to get the better of you since you were six.”

For half a moment, Mycroft considered telling her. He could have explained just _how_ far he had risen in such a short amount of time, of how it was impossible for such unprecedented advances to occur without garnering some attention and powerful enemies. In some ways, Mycroft relished the dangerous game: the high stakes, the excitement, the duel of wits. The game became far less exciting, however, when he had discovered an envelope with photos of Sherlock-- at school, by the river on their estate, in the library, in his room—on his front steps that morning. He would not admit how unsettling those photographs had been; he anticipated blackmail, it came with his line of work, but he had not realized it would start so soon, or for his single weakness to be exposed so quickly. He certainly would not describe his terror when he heard that Sherlock had been missing for four hours and his wild, almost irrational fears of what could have happened to him, and how, if anything did, it would be Mycroft’s fault. Instead, he simply gave his mother another smile, not a warm smile, he knew, it was what Sherlock had once called his “snake-smile,” back when Sherlock would still tell him such things.

 “It was simply a message,” he said, “a friendly demonstration of what happens when anyone dares lay a hand on Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up, appearances from our favorite DI, landlady (but not housekeeper), army doctor, and Consulting Criminal!
> 
> And as always, thank you for reading!


	6. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock nearly kills himself, a certain DI makes one of the most important decisions of his life, and Mycroft keeps postponing his meeting with the Japanese Prime Minister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter (and the next) will be dealing with Sherlock's drug addiction.

_Absent-mindedly, Mummy flipped to the next page in the album. Mycroft frowned, “There’s more?” he asked, knowing that the family had not taken pictures together since Mycroft’s departure to University._

_“A few,” Mummy murmured. Mycroft glanced at the page and was mildly surprised to see that it was not a picture at all, but a newspaper clipping. Until now, the glossy photographs had been carefully centered on colorful sheets of cardstock, the borders of which were decorated with ribbons, paper cutouts, and overpriced stickers. The same zeal had not been given to this picture, which was placed neatly, though hastily, in the protective plastic. However, Mycroft understood. Unlike the rest of the album, which was assembled to conform to social expectations, Mummy had placed this picture in the album because she wanted to. He examined it carefully; Detective Inspector Lestrade was smiling hesitantly up at them from the grainy photograph. “Police Catch Brutal Triple Murderer” the caption read. Behind and a little to the left of Lestrade, clearly in the picture by accident, stood Sherlock, immediately identifiable in his familiar long coat._

_“The first time he had his picture in the paper,” Mummy murmured, smiling affectionately and stroking the photograph with reverence, “That is when I knew he was finally making a life for himself.”_

_“True,” Mycroft murmured… thanks to the Detective Inspector._

 

Sherlock only attend two years of University, and frankly, Mycroft was surprised that he had lasted that long. What he had not anticipated, however, was for Sherlock to disappear immediately dropping out; it took six weeks for Mycroft’s agents to finally discover him, high as a kite, in the alley of a particularly disreputable part of London. Mycroft had dragged Sherlock, fighting and shouting about how much he hated his brother, to a private rehab clinic. After his release, Sherlock held a job as a store clerk for three weeks before disappearing again, for eight weeks this time, only to be discovered in yet another alley on a different concoction of drugs.

The cycle continued like some morbid hide-and-seek game for five years. Sherlock would constantly, and often successfully, try to escape his brother’s watchful eye until Mycroft would finally find him again, usually when he was arrested or too lost in the drugs to know where he was. Whatever healing had taken place between them the night Mycroft had kicked Father out was soon lost, as Mycroft would demand that Sherlock _finally_ clean up his act. “How could you waste your gifts like this?” he would demand when Sherlock was finally sober enough to understand him, “Do you not understand that if you continue this way, you will be dead long before you reached thirty?” It was the only spoken part of the conversation. His brother would only glare. Sometimes (if he was lucid enough) Sherlock would make a cold, snide remark, but it was his eyes that spoke, _I hate you_ , they said, _I hate you and why can you not finally just give up on me like everyone else and leave me? Stop meddling, stop interfering, and leave me ALONE!_

Then Mycroft would sigh, almost imperceptibly, _I know you hate me, Sherlock_ , the sigh would say, _But if I must choose between a Sherlock who is alive, healthy, and hates me over one who is dead and still loves me, I will choose the living one every time._

Sherlock’s face would tighten: _LEAVE_! _Go run the country you abandoned me for and leave me ALONE!_

Mycroft would close his eyes then, just for a moment: _I am sorry you think I abandoned you_ , _but you have, and always will be, my number one priority._ Sherlock would snort in disbelief, and the silent conversation would be over.

***

It was January, not long after Sherlock’s twenty-fifth birthday, when the Detective Inspector rang. Mycroft was in flight en route to Tokyo for an important meeting with the Japanese Prime Minister. Sherlock had, once again, vanished two weeks previously, and the knowledge that he was leaving the country without knowing his brother’s precise location threatened to give the elder Holmes an ulcer, but the meeting really could not wait.

 “Mycroft Holmes,” he said tersely, answering the airplane phone on the first ring. Probably just the Prime Minister in histrionics because he was not there to mediate the upcoming meeting with the Americans.  

“Mr. Holmes,” a pleasant, though clearly strained voice on the other side of the line said, “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” Mycroft’s grip on the telephone tightened instinctively. His thoughts churned with the images that haunted his nightmares: Sherlock in a gutter, killed in a drug deal gone bad, Sherlock killed in an overdose, Sherlock homeless, starved, and naked, dead in an ally, Mummy weeping at her youngest son’s headstone, himself staring at Sherlock’s closet, their Palace, and knowing that his brother would never sit in it again, and knowing that, in some indefinable yet undeniable way, if…when…that day came…it would be his fault.

Mycroft’s PA glanced up, immediately noticing his change of expression, a small, professional frown creasing her face. _This could not happen at a worse time_ , she was clearly thinking as she began planning whatever arrangements may be necessary in reaction to the phone call.

“What has he done, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft asked, keeping his voice calm despite the panic curling in the pit of his stomach.

There was a pause, “I don’t follow, Mr. Holmes,” the Detective Inspector said carefully.

Mycroft sighed impatiently, “Of course you do. You are calling in regards to my brother, Sherlock, most likely on some drug-related charge, so I am asking you, what has my brother done now?”

Another pause, “It’s drugs,” the DI said finally, “We found him in an alley. He overdosed. He’s at Bart’s hospital now.”

Overdosed. The word hung ominously in the air. While Sherlock had been under the influence of drugs more often than Mycroft cared to consider, and had suffered the pains of withdrawal several times as Mycroft tried to force him to get clean, he had never seriously overdosed. It had been the one small mercy in this nightmare.

“Sir,” his assistant said. He glanced at her. _We are en route to a top priority meeting_ , her eyes clearly said; _we cannot run back to take care of your irresponsible brother._

“How badly?” Mycroft asked briskly.

“I’m sorry?”

“How bad is it?” Mycroft asked through gritted teeth, “I need to know how urgently my presence is required.”

Yet another drawn out pause, “Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, clearly annoyed, even shocked, by Mycroft’s lack of an emotional response, “He’s still unconscious. To be honest, the doctors aren’t sure he’ll make it.”

Mycroft suddenly felt as if he were falling from a very great height. Memories of little boys huddled in blue blankets mingled with nightmares that were suddenly all too real: “Tell the Captain to turn the plane around,” he snapped, “Immediately.” Seeing there was no longer a point in arguing, his PA jumped to her feet and ran to carry out his orders. Satisfied that she would take care of any necessary arrangements, Mycroft regained his composure, “Unfortunately I am currently en route to Tokyo,” he said briskly, “So I will not be there for approximately ten hours. However, I would like you to call and inform me of his condition at least every fifteen minutes.”

“Ten hours...” Lestrade murmured, clearly bemused that Mycroft thought he could get there so quickly.

“Yes,” Mycroft said impatiently, “Now, Detective Inspector, I am going to have a text sent to you that contains my private phone number. It is to be used only in connection to Sherlock, and I expect to be receiving information every fifteen minutes. Do you understand?”

“Yes I understand...do you want my number?”

Mycroft glanced at his PA, who had just returned to her seat. Not bothering to look up from her phone, she shook her head.

“That will not be necessary.”

“How do you have my number?” the DI demanded.

“That hardly matters,” Mycroft said evenly.

“You better believe…” the man on the other end of the line began to splutter.

There was no time to wait for yet another naive citizen to realize how little privacy he actually had, “Fifteen minutes,” Mycroft repeated emphatically and ended the call.

“I need to know who is treating my brother,” Mycroft said to his PA, “and if their credentials are anything short of impeccable. I want them replaced immediately. Make sure he is moved to a private room, and get me specifics on his current medical readings, including which drugs he overdosed on. Also begin compiling another list of potential rehabilitation options…and make sure that DI gets a cup of decent coffee,” he added as an afterthought. His PA nodded and began typing rapidly on her phone and her laptop. Mycroft also flipped his laptop open and began running through CCTV footage of the hospital, barely registering as he felt the plane change direction and return to London. The Japanese Prime Minister would have to wait. Sherlock was his first priority.

The next ten hours seemed both unnaturally fast and painfully slow.  Mycroft spent the time smoothing things over with the Japanese, receiving the DI’s updates as well as updates from several members of Sherlock’s medical team, searching for yet another way to treat his brother’s addiction, and mediating a dispute in Parliament. Still this was not enough to keep Mycroft from the verge of panic. His mind ran through an endless list of worst-case scenarios that always ended with Sherlock dead or in a mentally crippled in a way that would be worse than death…for both of them. Such thoughts were foolish and unproductive, Mycroft knew, the type of _normal_ behavior he prided himself in avoiding, yet this was Sherlock. Sherlock was always the exception. 

***

Despite the fact that he had envisioned this scenario every night for the past five years, Mycroft was not prepared to see his brother so silent and still in the hospital bed. He approached cautiously, as if Sherlock might fade away altogether if he moved too quickly. The sight made him catch his breath in horror. Sherlock seemed less substantial than a ghost; he was gaunt, emaciated, and somehow even paler than normal.  An assembly of machines measured everything from his heart rate to his temperature, and the mass of tubes, cords, and monitors heightened the sense that Sherlock was not actually there, that if Mycroft blinked, his brother would vanish, never to return.

“You _idiot_ ,” Mycroft said emphatically, running his fingers gently through his brother’s dark curls, “You absolute idiot, what am I going to do with you?” He sighed, “How long has he been asleep?” he asked, not taking his eyes from Sherlock.

“About an hour,” Lestrade said from behind him, “Doctors say he should stay that way for a few more hours at least.” Mycroft nodded in acknowledgment but did not say anything. “I can give you a bit of privacy, if you’d like,” Lestrade continued hesitantly. Mycroft was vaguely aware that he was thoroughly confusing the DI with his initial seeming lack of emotion, his impossibly quick arrival, the marked difference between his tailored suit and the rags Sherlock had undoubtedly been found in, and the intangible yet indisputable sense of strangeness, other-worldliness, of danger Mycroft knew both he and Sherlock emitted. The unusually competent DI was clearly flummoxed. Mycroft did not care.

“No,” he said firmly, regaining his composure, “No that is quite alright.” He took a small breath, forcing himself to be brisk and methodical, or at least appear to be so, “What happened when he awoke?” The DI had texted him two hours ago to inform him that Sherlock had woken, though only for a few minutes, and that the doctors thought he was out of immediate danger.

“Well…it was just for a bit mind…” Lestrade said, immediately more comfortable now that they seemed to be leaving the realm of emotions behind, “He was a bit out-of-control though…In a bit of a craze….reading off the life story of me, the doctors, the nurses, as if we were open books…like he was some kind of psychic or something.”

“Hardly something that imprecise,” Mycroft sniffed.

Lestrade shrugged, “Well, it didn’t last long at any rate, fell back asleep within ten minutes…mid rant no less…”

“That is rather like him, even as a child,” Mycroft murmured sardonically, still staring at is brother’s still form.

There was a brief pause, “Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said carefully. Mycroft nodded to indicate he was listening, “It isn’t my business, but I’ve been doing this awhile, and your brother doesn’t strike me as your average addict. He’s different…maybe even brilliant, and…” he trailed off, his boldness failing him, but his question was clear: _How does someone like him waste his life like this?_

Mycroft gave the man a swift, searching glance. The detective inspector was haggard, exhausted yet inexplicably and undeniably interested. He had stayed at the hospital all this time; there was no doubt that he _cared_ about Sherlock, cared about him in a way Mycroft had long believed anyone besides himself was incapable. It was…”remarkable,” Mycroft murmured, despite himself.

Lestrade frowned, “I’m sorry?”

“Let me ask you a question first, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft asked, “Why are you here?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do,” Mycroft chided, “You are a law enforcement officer; your first years at the Yard were with the drug squad. You have watched countless people destroy their lives with narcotics, so stories such as Sherlock’s are hardly new, or even incredibly moving, to you. Yet you came with him to the hospital, and you have not left in the intermittent ten hours and, even more remarkably, you stayed with him even after he woke, after you saw he interacts with the rest of the world. Detective Inspector, no one besides myself has ever taken such an active interest in his life, and so I am asking you what interest do you have in Sherlock?”

Lestrade hesitated, “I can’t completely explain it myself,” he finally admitted, “When I found him, he was still conscious, just barely, so I took his hand and started to talk to him, like we’re taught, you know, tried to keep him calm, keep him conscious, ‘It’s alright son,’ I said, and he just stared at me and asked ‘why?’” Lestrade shook his head, “It was like he could not understand why I would help him, and he looked like he was just a kid, just a lost, lonely little boy, more lost, even, than the countless others I’ve seen…so I came.”

“I see,” Mycroft murmured. He straightened up a little more, “And why did you stay?”

Lestrade shrugged, “Because he’s brilliant, I suppose. I could tell that in those few minutes…a genius even…” he sighed, “I just don’t understand why someone as brilliant as him would poison his mind like this.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Detective Inspector,” he said crisply, “He does it because he is so brilliant.”

Lestrade frowned, “I don’t follow.”

“No,” Mycroft said mildly, “I suppose you would not. Let me try to explain. He glanced around the room. How many ceiling tiles would you say there are?”

Lestrade blinked, “Well how would I know?”

“Mmm, and this umbrella,” Mycroft held it up for the DI to see, “Which store did I purchase it at, and how long ago?”

“Look,” Lestrade said crossly, “If you’re just trying to make me feel like an idiot...”

“If you intend to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes, accept the fact that you are going to feel like an idiot on a regular basis,” Mycroft said briskly, “You have seen how he dissects people, notices the smallest details and uses them to form a complete picture of the person. Now imagine receiving this constant flow of information for each person, each object, and each environment one comes into contact with.”

“You’d go mad,” Lestrade said incredulously.

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, “And you would get _bored_ ….a mind processing at a thousand meters per second as the world passes you by at a much slower rate. He has spent his entire life searching for ways to occupy his vast mental capacity.”

“Until he decided to force his mind to slow down,” Lestrade said, nodding in comprehension, “Drown out the racket using narcotics.”

“You see the allure,” Mycroft said grimly, “And you see why it has been nearly impossible to break him of his habits. He needs to be distracted, and he will find a way to do it, no matter how disastrous the consequences.”

“So you think,” Lestrade said slowly, “If he finds a way to occupy his mind, he will be able to stop.”

“I believe it is our best chance,” Mycroft sighed, “Of course the threat of relapse will always exist, as it does with any addict, but if he finds a distraction, he may at least _want_ to give them up, and Sherlock Holmes tends to accomplish what he puts his mind to.” It was a testament to his own frantic mental state, Mycroft noted wryly, that he was even disguising this with the Detective Inspector.

“I see,” Lestrade murmured thoughtfully.

“Sir,” Mycroft’s PA said from the doorway, “It’s the Japanese Prime Minister. He says it is urgent.”

“The Prime Minister,” Lestrade breathed, turning to stare at Mycroft in frank astonishment.

“Of course,” Mycroft said. His PA handed him the phone, and Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at Lestrade.

The DI took the hint, “I’ll leave you to it,” he murmured, already retreating towards the door.

Mycroft did not spare the man another glance as he placed the phone to his ear, “Good evening Prime Minister…”

***

The call with the Prime Minister took only fifteen minutes, by which time his PA had located a makeshift desk and a relatively comfortable chair, allowing Mycroft to set up his laptop and resume working while he waited for Sherlock to wake. Lestrade reappeared two hours later, having clearly returned home to change, shower, and eat. Mycroft barely glanced at him as he entered, “Feeling refreshed, Lestrade?”

“Yea,” Lestrade said slowly. He stared at Mycroft for a few seconds, “Back to work already?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured, not bothering to glance up, “My business with the Japanese was pressing.”

“With the Japanese Prime Minister,” Lestrade clarified.

“Among others.”

“Right,” Lestrade hesitated, “If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Holmes, what is it exactly that you do?”

Mycroft flashed the DI a cold smile, “What do you think, Detective Inspector?”

“Well, you’re important enough to be able to cancel a meeting with the Japanese Prime Minister at a moment’s notice, and you were able to get all my personal information, so I’d say some type of elected official or cabinet member...”

“Nothing nearly so flashy,” Mycroft chortled.

“That’s what scares me,” Lestrade murmured.

“Indeed?” Mycroft said, amused despite himself, “Why is that?”

“Because you’re powerful, Mr. Homes,” Lestrade said, “Very powerful, and don’t try to tell me you’re not, so the fact that someone like exists kind of makes me lose faith in the democratic process.”

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft chortled, “Democracy would have ceased to exist long ago without men like me. Do you really think that any country could survive, much less prosper, if the only people making the decisions were the sniping, bickering, backstabbing politicians in Parliament and Downing Street? As different men, different policies, different parties, fall in and out of power, men like me maintain order and make sure the word keeps running.”

“Well at least you’re humble about it,” Lestrade said sarcastically.

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but he was distracted by a low moan from the corner of the room. Without another word, both men stood and strode to the bed.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and glanced around. Biting back a shout of relieved delight, Mycroft instead gave his brother a small, humorless smile, “Good evening brother.”

Scowling, Sherlock’s eyes focused blearily on his brother’s face, “You,” he snarled in a weak, raspy voice. He lurched forward, straining against the IV lines, his face a contorted mask of pain and fury.

Mycroft poured his brother a cup of water, “Yes, me,” he admitted, not quite able to hide his regret. He handed his brother the cup, only for Sherlock to knock it away savagely, spilling water down his sheets.

Mycroft closed his eyes in frustration, “Now Sherlock,” he heard Lestrade chide, “He was just trying to help.”  

“W-h-ho are y-you?” Sherlock snarled. Mycroft’s stomach clenched uncomfortably; the tremors were starting.

“My name’s Greg Lestrade…” the DI began.

“D-I-I with a b-bad m-marriage and un-unfaithful wife… Same one who f-found me,” Sherlock recalled in that same, savage voice.

“Well…yea…”

“W-why are you h-here?” Mycroft opened his eyes; Sherlock’s voice was still angry but also unusually genuine...

“Well-“Lestrade began.

“Did he,” Sherlock pointed a trembling hand at Mycroft, “M-m-make y-you come?” What little color Sherlock had regained during his slumber was gone now, and he was shaking uncontrollably. It was all Mycroft could do to not push his brother back down in the bed, but that would only make Sherlock resist even more.

Thankfully, Lestrade seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Here, let’s get you laid back down,” he said. He set the vomit-filled bowl on the ground and gently pushed Sherlock back into the pillows. The young man resisted, glaring at the DI, “Look,” Lestrade said impatiently, “I’m not here with your brother, alright? Now can you please lie down before you make yourself even sicker?” Sherlock scowled, but relented, collapsing back in to the pillows, “T-then wh-why are you h-here?” he repeated.

“Mr. Holmes!” a falsely cheery voice cried from the doorway, “It’s so good to see you awake!” The nurse approached the bed; her trembling smile indicated that she was one of the victims of Sherlock’s deductions when he had first woken. “Let’s see if we can’t sit you up and make you a bit more comfortable.” Taking Sherlock’s indistinct mumble as an assent, she reached to help him lead forward so she could rearrange the pillows. Furiously, Sherlock swatted her hand away.

“Mr. Holmes…” the nurse began.

“Here,” Lestrade said, “Let me.” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm, the younger man stiffened, “Sherlock,” Lestrade said gravely, “Let me help you.” Sherlock hesitated for a long moment, but nodded. Holding onto Sherlock’s arm and reaching his other hand behind the young man’s back, he helped pull a trembling and grimacing Sherlock forward. Shooting the DI a grateful smile, the nurse rearranged the pillows, and Lestrade helped the young man lean against them so that he was propped up more.

“Hurts,” Sherlock murmured through clenched teeth, and Mycroft noted with a bitter-sweet jolt that he looked at Lestrade.

Lestrade glanced at Mycroft, clearly just as shocked that the young man was turning to him, “I know, Sherlock,” he said finally, “But you’re just going to have to fight through it.”

Sherlock sagged, and he seemed undeniably…weak, “Can’t.”

“Yes, you will,” Lestrade said firmly. He poured another cup of water, “Drink this.”

Sherlock obediently sipped the water before he noticed the nurse’s fretful eyes watching him, “Leave!” he snapped. The nurse scurried away, “N-need to get out of h-here,” he rasped.

“That is something we need to discuss,” Mycroft agreed, “I have compiled a list of potential rehabilitation centers, where you will at least be able to detox more comf-“

“NO. MORE. REHAB!” Sherlock growled as fiercely as he could manage.

Mycroft sighed in exasperation, “Then what do you suggest?” You do not wish to return to the estate and force mother to see you like this, do you?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted.

“And you cannot live on your own,” Mycroft said firmly, “and I refuse to simply let you wander the streets again.”

Sherlock scowled, but did not respond.

“The only other option,” Mycroft continued, a little more gently, “Is for you to stay with me…”

“NO!” Sherlock all but roared.

“Then I do not know what else to suggest,” Mycroft snapped.

“He could stay with me,” Lestrade’s voice was quiet, but clear.

Both Holmes brothers turned to the DI in surprise. “I c-could wh-what?” Sherlock breathed.

“You could stay with me,” Lestrade repeated, “Not permanently mind, but for a few weeks, at least, long enough to get yourself back on your feet.” He voice became firm, “But only if you promise to get clean--and stay clean--or else I’ll hand you over to your big, nasty brother.”

Sherlock stared at Lestrade for nearly half a minute until, finally, he nodded.

“Alright then,” Lestrade said, “Now get some more rest. I’ve got to go get the house ready for one more occupant, but I’ll be back in a few hours.”

To Mycroft’s astonishment, Sherlock did not object. Instead, he closed his eyes. Sleep came within seconds.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured.

“We had to get him out, or I’d have a homicide on my hands,” Lestrade shrugged. He pulled on his coat, “Well, I’d better go to the Mrs.--not that she’ll be pleased,” he did not seem unduly perturbed by the thought. He turned and headed to the doorway, stopped, and turned back to Mycroft.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry he seems to…talk to me more. I know you care about him…” his voice trailed off.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft smiled, and he was surprised to realize that the smile was almost genuine, “My brother has decided to let someone help him. If chose the devil himself, I would still pleased.”

***

Four hours later, Sherlock, leaning heavily on Lestrade, stumbled into the DI’s flat, half an hour after Lestrade’s wife, angry as he predicted, stormed out. Mycroft did not accompany them, but he did watch from a distance as the door closed behind the two men. It was a strange and unforeseeable turn of events, but the Elder Holmes cautiously hoped things would change for the better. After all, his brother was trusting someone…in a way.

“You have arranged level four surveillance,” he murmured to his PA. When she nodded, Mycroft sighed, “Well, let us head to the office and arrange for the Japanese Prime Minister to be flown here. We really cannot delay these negotiations much longer.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)


	7. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even a budding Consulting Detective is able to resist the will of a murderer's wife when she is on a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of the previous chapter (hence why there aren't any of Mycroft's reflections preceding the flashback).

Mycroft visited the DI’s house a week later, after his agents assured him that Sherlock was asleep. He was too tired to endure yet another poisoned conversation with his brother.

“Been wondering when you’d turn up again,” an exhausted Lestrade said by way of greeting, gesturing for Mycroft to come in.

The Elder Holmes glanced around the flat without interest; his agents had provided him with plenty of photographs of the interior. It was plain and unremarkable, aside from the figure curled on the living room couch. Sherlock, dressed in a pair of pajamas, was (for what Mycroft knew to be the first time that week) sleeping, albeit fitfully; Mycroft knew he had vacillated between that spot and the toilet for the past week.

“How is he?” Mycroft asked, careful to keep his voice offhand as both men sat at the dining room table, still in sight of the couch.

“Getting more stubborn every minute,” Lestrade sighed, “Which, from what I understand, is a good sign.” He sighed heavily, “The withdrawal’s been bad, still is, but that’s what we all expected. Nothing to do but wait it out…and he seems…determined”

Mycroft nodded, still staring at his motionless brother. Sherlock’s skin was chalky white, sweaty, and there was flecks of vomit and snot on his clothes. Yet he was safe. “Then he is as well as can be expected,” he said. He glanced down at a thick manila envelope resting on the table and saw, to his surprise, that it was covered with notes written in an untidy yet elegant scrawl. Mycroft peered more closely at the handwriting--definitely Sherlock’s--though the unevenness of the letters indicated that his hand had been shaking as he wrote. Mycroft flipped through the folder, and glanced sharply up at the DI, “You are giving a heroin addict access to case files?”

“It’s not an official case file, per-say,” Lestrade said a little defensively, “The husband of a family friend, Mrs. Hudson’s her name, is on death row in Florida.”

“And she wanted you to help acquit him.”

“Oh no, she’s sure he did it, but it’s looking like he might win the appeal, so she asked if I could take a look.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “And you allowed Sherlock to see it as well.”

“He wouldn’t shut up about being bored,” Lestrade groaned, “He wouldn’t say it, but I think he wanted to be distracted from the pain, and it worked.”

“It did?” Mycroft hardly dared himself to believe it.

“Almost too well,” Lestrade said, “He’s become a bit obsessed, actually. He insisted that he interview Mrs. Hudson himself. In fact,” Lestrade glanced at his watch, “She could be here any minute.”

Mycroft frowned. Sherlock would undoubtedly be unable to stand this dottering old woman and he would lose interest in the only thing he remotely cared about, besides what came from a syringe, “You think it is wise to let her come?”

“He insisted,” Lestrade said, “And besides, you said he needed to find some way to use his brains in order to keep him sober, and if this,” Lestrade tapped the folder, “Will do it, then so be it. I was thinking of bringing around some cold case files after he finished this one.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, careful to keep his voice calm, although he was feeling something that might be described by a lesser man as a mixture of apprehension and giddiness as he read though the file with Sherlock’s many underlining’s and insertions. _He is really interested,_ the Elder Holmes thought breathlessly. _Perhaps this nightmare really is coming to an end…_

The shrill ring of the doorbell interrupted his thoughts. In the living room, Sherlock shot up, grimaced at the sudden movement, but continued to arrange himself into a somewhat presentable position. Lestrade stood and answered the door, “Hello Mrs. Hudson,” he said fondly.

“Good evening, love,” came the reply. Mycroft raised his eyebrows; the woman’s appearance and mannerisms seemed more suited to Mrs. Claus than the wife of an accused murderer.

“Sorry to make you come all this way,” Lestrade continued, “But Mr. Holmes isn’t at his best yet.”

“My intellect is _fine_ ,” Sherlock called from the sofa.

“And your pride,” Lestrade grumbled, “Would you like some tea, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh that’s quite alright,” Mrs. Hudson said with a warm smile, “Although you might want to make yourself a cuppa. You look a bit peaky.”

“I’m alright,” Lestrade assured her, “Well, I suppose you may as well meet the man himself.”

The elderly woman caught Mycroft’s eye, “Are you Sherlock then?” she asked kindly.

Sherlock snorted, “Hardly,” he scoffed.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said politely, standing and extending his hand.

She shook it, “Oh, are you two brothers then?”

“An unfortunate reality,” Sherlock said icily, but his voice was quickly weakening, “Now, are we finally finished with the formalities, so we can finally talk about something _interesting_."

 

“Bit rude, love,” Mrs. Hudson clucked, though she did not seem unduly perturbed by this. She wandered into the living room, Lestrade and Mycroft following a little behind. Mycroft scanned the woman’s floral-pattered dress, bland shoes, and cheap makeup, and any hope that Sherlock might end his self-destructive cycle immediately vanished. He doubted his brother would be able to stand this woman’s presence for five minutes.

The elderly woman seated herself on a couch directly across from Sherlock. Mycroft settled himself in the single armchair, and Lestrade sat in a kitchen chair near the couch, undoubtedly placed there during his time caring for the young man. “You really look quite ill,” Mrs. Hudson frowned as she took in Sherlock’s haggard appearance.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said emphatically, though Mycroft noticed the slightest tremor in his hands, “Now describe your garage to me.”

“Well, my husband never let me in it, but it was quite messy…he left his tools all over the place…are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea? You don’t look well at all.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock growled, thought the trembling was becoming more pronounced, “Now what did he do with the tools he used most often...”

“No you’re not fine,” Mrs. Hudson interrupted with surprising firmness, “And I won’t answer any more of your questions until you at least have some tea.”

“I don’t eat while I’m working.”

“Drinking tea is not eating, love,” Mrs. Hudson insisted. She stood, “And poor Lestrade looks as though he could really use some tea--no don’t get up dear--I’ve got it sorted, and I’ll get some for Mycroft too, and don’t try to object.”

“Would not dream of it,” Mycroft murmured bemusedly; this woman was clearly more than met the eye.

Mrs. Hudson did not hear him, “Have you got chamomile?” she called as she puttered into the kitchen.

Sherlock watched her go, a small, puzzled frown playing his lips. Finally, he turned and glared at Mycroft, “Why are you here?” he demanded.

“Is it really that difficult to deduce?” Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock scowled, “I have no idea what you mean to accomplish.”

Before Mycroft could respond, Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of the kitchen, “Is your wife away, Greg, because it looks like you’ve been living on takeout for days.”

“Well…yea…” Lestrade began.

“And you’ve been taking care of this poor boy all by yourself,” she clucked, “You really should have phoned me sooner.”

Sherlock was frowning again, “Why-“he began, but Mrs. Hudson cut him off.

“Hold on one second, dear, the kettle’s boiling. She retreated into the kitchen; Sherlock stared after her, that same, puzzled frown playing his lips.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the house were the light clanging from the kitchen as Mrs. Hudson finished preparing the tea. Finally, she emerged, carefully balancing a tray laden with four steaming cups and a plate of biscuits.

“Drink it slowly, dear,” she said, handing Sherlock the first cup, “We don’t want you throwing it up.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured, accepting the cup without protest.

“Now I would fix you some supper,” Mrs. Hudson continued, “But I’m not sure you could handle solids. I’ll come by tomorrow with some broth, and maybe some yogurt.” She handed the second cup to Lestrade, “But Greg’ll need something a bit more substantial. I’ll fix something and bring it over with the broth. How does some curry sound, or a nice Shepard’s pie?”

“You really don’t have to…” Lestrade began.

“Oh, don’t be silly! You can’t take care of him all by yourself,” Mrs. Hudson tittered, handing Mycroft a cup, “I don’t suppose I’ll have to fix you anything. You look quite sorted to be honest.” Sherlock shot Mycroft a triumphant smirk, staring pointedly at his bulging vest.

“Indeed,” Mycroft said with a tight smile, pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s silent jibe.

“Very good then,” Mrs. Hudson said, seating herself on the couch next to Sherlock, “Now will you be needing anything else, dear?”

“I do not understand,” Sherlock mumbled.

“What’s that?” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully.

“I do not understand,” Sherlock repeated, “Why are you helping me?”

The elderly woman blinked in surprise, “You’re ill, dear.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head and, for half a moment, he looked just as lost and confused as the little boy Mycroft had held in their Palace. He pointed to Lestrade, “He is helping me out of a sense of civic duty--the nice policeman who must stop to help the heroin addict.” He paused, waiting for Mrs.’s Hudson’s reaction. She sipped her tea without batting an eye. Blinking in surprise, Sherlock continued, “Mycroft feels some bizarre sense of familial responsibility. But you…you do not have any of that. I am just a random bloke off the street, a heroin addict no less. It is not logical for you to care.”

Mrs. Hudson reached over and patted the young man’s hand. Sherlock flinched but did not pull away, “Sherlock,” she said, in a tone that was both affectionate and reproachful, “You’re a fine young man who’s clearly had a hard time of it. Any decent person would want to help.”

“They don’t,” Mycroft knew the words had escaped Sherlock’s lips before he could stop them.

“Well I _do_ ,” Mrs. Hudson said firmly, patting his hand again, “Now, you were asking about my husband’s tools.”

For several seconds, Sherlock starred at the elderly woman in undisguised wonder. Then he shook himself, “Yes, of course,” he said briskly, “I need to know…” and he was off, asking questions as quickly as Mrs. Hudson could answer them. His pale face flushed with excitement as he became more and more involved in the case: asking questions, rattling off long deductions, and pointing out minute details as if anyone should be able to see them.

As his voice became steadily stronger, ruder, and more arrogant, it would be easy to believe that he had no feelings for the DI and Mrs. Hudson-- that they served as nothing more than receptacles for his brilliance, and that, as soon as he was well, Sherlock would disappear without giving another moment’s thought. Mycroft, however, knew better. He saw the way Sherlock would stop mid-sentence to answer Lestrade’s question, albeit with an impatient scowl, and how he would repeat his explanation when it was clear Mrs. Hudson did not understand. It seemed that this plain DI and baffling wife of a murderer had succeeded in doing the impossible; they had won the affection of Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft watched bemusedly as Lestrade leaned forward, listening intently to Sherlock’s long-winded explanation, as Mrs. Hudson patted Sherlock’s knee with a mixture of amazement and affection, and as the young man took her gestures in stride. If one ignored the fact that the group was discussing the best way to ensure someone’s execution, they looked like…something, not a family, not even really friends, but…something. Something of which Mycroft was not a part.

The Elder Holmes stood, leaving his half-drunk tea on the table, and moved silently towards the door. It was bittersweet, watching his brother finally forge tentative ties with these people, yet knowing that he, who had known Sherlock the longest and loved him the best, was not invited. Nevertheless, Mycroft Holmes was a tactician of the highest caliber, and he knew when it was time to retreat.

The elder brother paused at the front door. As he had anticipated, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had not noticed his departure, but Sherlock glanced up for half a second as he was answering the DI’s question and raised an eyebrow at his brother.

It was all Mycroft needed. For that single instant, the torment, the loneliness, the despair that had perpetually stalked his younger brother were replaced with emotions Mycroft had long concluded Sherlock was incapable of feeling: excitement, contentment, even happiness. _Do not worry, Mycroft_ his eyes said, _I will stay clean._

Any lingering trace of regret or bitterness for being excluded from this new circle now extinguished, Mycroft smiled, _I know, dear brother._

Sherlock shot him a scowl. _Do not think I am going to make this a habit; you are still a pompous, backstabbing prat._

Mycroft smirked, _I expect no less._

With a last, brief flicker of a smile, Sherlock returned his full attention to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, both of whom were still oblivious to the brothers’ interaction.

Still smiling, Mycroft watched as his brother delved into another series of brilliant deductions--Mrs. Hudson’s husband clearly did not stand a chance--as the immense ball of worry he perpetually felt for his little brother eased…somewhat.

“Still my first priority,” he murmured and silently slipped out of the home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and again, I'd love to hear what you think!


	8. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy wants to meet a miracle. Mycroft wants to hide the past. John just wants lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references a couple of events at the beginning:(mostly Chapters 4 and 5) the fact that Mycroft taught Sherlock how to build a Mind Palace while they were inside of their "Closet Palace," and that after Mycroft left for University, Sherlock told him that he changed his Mind Palace into a Mind Laboratory.  
> Enjoy!

_There was only one more photograph, and really, Mycroft should have known it was there…that_ he _was there. Although his tenure in Sherlock’s life was relatively brief, John Watson’s impact was unfathomable._

_Neither Mycroft nor Mummy spoke as they stared down at the picture. Sherlock was not in this one, but Mummy and the good doctor were sitting next to each other on the couch, arms around each other’s shoulders. John’s smile was small and bemused, still unsure how he ended up in the living room of his best friend’s childhood home. Mummy, on the other hand, was glowing, her eyes bright with delight as she pulled John almost uncomfortably close to her. Mycroft knew why. Like him, she had trouble believing John was there, that he was not a ghost or a dream that they had willed into fruition to finally, finally accomplish the impossible…make Sherlock happy. Mummy was beaming as Mycroft had rarely seen her before, exuberant to be photographed with a miracle._

Doctor John Watson was clearly less than pleased to see the black limousine pull alongside him. “You could tell Mycroft,” he grumbled as he got in, “That I have been known to use a phone…oh,” he finished lamely, finally realizing that is was Mycroft, not his PA, who was waiting for him. “You’re not Anthea…”

“Very astute, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft smirked.

“Right,” John said slowly as the car pulled away, “Well, I don’t know what you could possibly want to talk about. Sherlock’s on a case in Paris,* but you already knew that.”

“Consider this a social call,” Mycroft said with a small, humorless smile, “I am inviting you to lunch.”

Whatever John had expected, his blank stare revealed that it was clearly not this, “Lunch?”

“You are familiar with the ritual, I presume?”

“Right, yes,” John snapped, “Well I doubt I have much say in the matter, but its 8:30 in the morning right now, so if you could just drop me off at the surgery you can pick me up in your big, black limo a bit closer to noon.”

“Oh you will not be going into the surgery today,” Mycroft said, “Do not worry; we have already contacted your employer.”

“And that makes it okay,” John said furiously, “What, exactly, are we doing then?”

“There is someone who wants to meet you.”

“What, your boss?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Mycroft said as he pulled a classified file out of his briefcase and flipped it open.

They lapsed into silence. Mycroft continued reading through files, pausing occasionally to send a brief email. John leaned his head against the tinted window and did not speak again until the car pulled onto the motorway.

“We’re leaving London?” he asked. Mycroft did not bother responding, so John pulled out his mobile and started tapping the keys.

Five minutes later, Mycroft’s phone buzzed. Smirking at his brother’s predictability, Mycroft opened the text.

**You are taking him to the Estate? –SH**

 

Mycroft could practically see the fury undoubtedly radiating off his brother. Still smirking, he responded.

 

**Mummy wished to have lunch. –MH**

 

The furious reply was nearly instantaneous.

 

**And you deliberately put off this meeting until I was out of the country. –SH**

 

**We thought it would be better this way. –MH**

 

**Meaning you wish to discuss private matters that I would be unwilling to delve into. –SH**

 

Mycroft sighed; Sherlock was painfully paranoid at times.

 

**Sherlock, this is John. –MH**

He knew Sherlock understood the unspoken meaning; _He would never allow us to discuss anything he thought you would find objectionable._

 

It took a little longer for Sherlock to reply.

 

**Make sure he has a somewhat tolerable experience or I WILL leak the entire contents of the CIA database. -SH**

**Naturally-MH**

***

Three hours later, the car finally turned onto the mile-long driveway leading up to the house. The motion jolted the semi-dozing doctor awake. He stretched and looked out the window, “Hang on,” he murmured, sitting up straighter in his seat, “Is that your house? The house you and Sherlock grew up in?”

“Welcome to the Holmes estate,” Mycroft said as he stowed away the last of his reports, “This has been the Holmes’ primary residence for the past three hundred years.”

“Quite a bit of space, you’ve got here,” John murmured as the car slowed to a stop. He got out quickly, clearly curious, despite himself. Mycroft waited for the chauffeur to open his door before also exiting the car, taking care to remember his briefcase.

“Hang on…” John said as the car pulled away, “If this is your childhood home, then am I meeting…”

“Mycroft!” Mummy’s voice carried equal measures of delight and sophistication as she descended the front steps. She embraced him and planted a light kiss on his cheek.

“Good day Mummy,” Mycroft said.

“Always so formal,” she murmured with a laugh before turning to John, “And this must be Doctor Watson. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you,” she offered him her hand.

John shook it, “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Oh, call me Melinda, please,” Mummy laughed.

“Then feel free to call me John,” John said, smiling despite himself.

“Do come in John,” Mummy smiled, “I had them lay out lunch for us on the patio. I hope it was not too much of an inconvenience for you to come all this way.”

“Oh it was fine,” John lied.

Mummy frowned, not fooled, “Oh dear…Mycroft kidnapped you didn’t he? He can be very impolite like that,” she shot the elder Holmes a reproachful look that elicited a genuine smile from John. “We will just have to make sure you have an extra good time then,” Mummy assured him, patting John’s hand as she led them to the patio.

 

***

 

Sherlock need not have worried about John not enjoying himself. Mummy was nothing if not the consummate hostess. In less than ten minutes she had John earnestly engaged in conversation, both laughing frequently as they discussed everything from John’s time in medical school to Mummy’s favorite organic fruit vendors. 

“I’m sorry Sherlock couldn’t be here,” John said as they finished the last of their berry crumble, “he had to leave rather suddenly for Paris.”

“Oh that is alright dear,” Mummy said easily. She shot John a small, conspiratorial smile, “To be honest, I asked Mycroft to bring you over when Sherlock was away.”

John raised his eyebrows, “Why’s that?”

“I love my son dearly,” Mummy explained, “But he does tend to eat up a room…I wanted a chance to really get to know _you_ … I doubt Sherlock could have stood a ten minute discussion of football.”

“I suppose not,” John agreed, still looking slightly bemused.

“John!” Mummy laughed, “I had enough trouble trying to get him to eat three times a day, much less sit down and have a polite conversation while he did. Mycroft finally convinced me to leave Sherlock to his unusual eating habits.”

John glanced at Mycroft in surprise, “You?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Is it really such a surprise?”

“Oh these two were thick as thieves, before Mycroft ran off to University,” Mummy laughed, “Surely Sherlock you?”

“No, he didn’t,” John said, unable to hide his surprise. He recovered quickly, however, “I suppose it is true that he doesn’t have much patience for social niceties…not enough room for manners in his Mind Palace I suppose.”

Mycroft did not _quite_ spit out his mouthful of sparkling spring water over the entire table, but it was a near thing. He quickly swallowed the offending liquid and then said, with every air of nonchalance, “His what?”

Something in his tone must have betrayed him, because John shot Mycroft a puzzled, probing look. Sometimes Mycroft forgot that the seemingly mundane doctor had over a year’s experience reading Holmes facial expressions. “His Mind Palace,” John finally repeated, “It’s a memory technique…”

“Yes, I am familiar with the theory,” Mycroft interrupted swiftly. John had repeated the essential word… _Palace_. Sherlock did not have a Mind Palace; he had not had a Mind Palace since that fateful day Mycroft left for University. In his rage, he transformed it to a Mind Laboratory, effectively cutting all emotional ties he felt towards Mycroft. The Elder Holmes had always assumed this change was permanent; Sherlock did not change his mind.

Why had he told John differently?

Quelling any irrational and potentially emotionally devastating traces of hope, Mycroft forced himself to resume listening to the conversation.

 “He does have his own, unique habits, though,” Mummy was saying.

“To put it mildly,” John muttered.

Good, apparently his small lapse into the realm of _emotion_ had gone unnoticed. Mycroft forced himself to join into the conversation, “I always found the skull to be by far his most distasteful idiosyncrasy.”

“The skull’s not so bad, actually,” John said, a little defensively. He chuckled, “Actually, the only thing I find truly maddening is his cleaning habits.”

“Or lack thereof,” Mycroft noted drily. _Good,_ he thought, _maintain the pretense of dry exasperation. They must not see anything else_ _._

Like the torrent of emotions that were currently threatening to shatter his flawless veneer.

John shook his head, “I got used to the sloppiness eventually, bit of a welcome change after the army, but what drives me crazy is bipolar he is about it.”

Mummy laughed, “Well that seems like a bit of an improvement! He was always hopelessly messy as a child.”

“And he usually still is,” John agreed, “I don’t think I’ve seen him wash a dish since I’ve met him, but there are some things he keeps perfectly, absurdly clean.”

“Oh,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Like what?”

John rolled his eyes, “His closet of all things.”

            Mycroft set the glass he was about to bring to his lips down on the table with a loud _thunk_. John glanced at him in surprise, but before he could speak, Mummy laughed, “His closet? Really?” though her swift glance in Mycroft’s direction revealed her own astonishment.

            “I know, it’s crazy,” John agreed, “But once when I was tidying up I hung his coat up in his closet, and when he found it, he nearly bit my head off.”

            “Did he say why?” Mycroft asked, careful to keep his tone disinterested and slightly amused. In reality, his stomach was nearly ready to regurgitate his berry crumble.

            John shook his head, “Just a whole lot of shouting about how he leaves his possessions in certain places on purpose.”

            “Well, who can claim to completely understand the mind of Sherlock?” Mummy laughed.

            “Quite,” Mycroft murmured. He shook himself and smiled at Mummy, “Well I am afraid I must get back to the office.” It was no good. He needed to remove himself from the situation…now…before he lost control completely.

            Mummy nodded knowingly and stood, “Of course,” she said, “It has been delightful having you back here, Mycroft.”

            John also stood, “Thank you very much, Melinda,” he said earnestly, “This has been lovely.”

            “Oh do please come again! It is so good to get to know a friend of Sherlock’s!”

            “Yes, perhaps Sherlock can come next time,” John observed drily as they made their way to the front door.

            Mummy laughed, “If he agreed to come, but we both know he would much rather by solving crimes in Paris rather than having lunch here.” She gave a short, sarcastic laugh, “Perhaps he is visiting his Father…your Father is still in Paris, is he not?”

            “Last my agents saw,” Mycroft shrugged. Neither he nor Mummy really cared about where Father chose to squander his life.

            “Hang on,” John said, “Your Father’s in Paris. He is not…” he trailed off, blushing slightly.

            “Dead? No,” Mycroft said, “He simply cannot set foot in England without facing immediate arrest.”

            John frowned, “Couldn’t you fix that? Sees as you’re…you?”

            Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “Why would I fix it, when I am the one who exiled him?”

             “Why?” John asked, unable to disguise his surprise.

            “He punched Sherlock,” Mummy explained as if it was obvious, “Mycroft sends very clear messages when it comes to his baby brother.”

            “I see,” John said slowly, shooting Mycroft a strange look that was not immediately dissectible.

            The Elder Holmes cleared his throat, the _emotions_ were fighting their way to the forefront again, “But we really must get going. Good afternoon, mother.”

            “Good bye Mycroft,” Mummy said, planting a small kiss on his cheek. She turned and embraced John, “Do come again, Doctor Watson.”

            “I will,” John assured her, “Goodbye Melinda.”

            They stepped outside, where the chauffeur was waiting beside the idling limousine. Mycroft slid quickly into the backseat and pulled out another file from his briefcase, though his thoughts still centered on their conversation at lunch. Sherlock kept his closet empty. He became angry when it was disturbed, and he did not tell John, _John_ of all people, why. He claimed to place information in a Mind _Palace._ Surely, this was not sentiment; he had lost Sherlock’s sympathy years ago.

            “Well,” he said, not certain if he was seeking distraction, illumination, or if he was honestly curious, “Did you enjoy yourself?” He did not glance up to see John’s reply.

            “What? Oh, yea…yea I did actually. Your mother’s lovely…not what I expected, but lovely.”

            “If by ‘not what I expected’ you mean ‘clearly incapable of caring for a child such as Sherlock, then yes, I suppose you are correct,” Mycroft said drily.

            “Well…yea…I did get that impression,” John admitted. He hesitated, “Do she and Sherlock get along?”

            “Sherlock and I have always rather viewed her as a favorite aunt rather than an authority figure, so yes; he has usually been on at least cordial terms with her.”

            “I see…” the silence dragged on for a couple seconds before John finally asked, "And your father?”

            “Always disinterested in the beginning, borderline abusive once I left. Hence why he has not set foot in Britain in over a decade,” Mycroft said calmly.

            It was nearly a minute before John spoke again: “So…you’re the one who raised him.”

            He could not resist; Mycroft glanced up. John was staring at him, a series of strange expressions flitting across features: surprise, understanding, pity, and perhaps something like…gratitude. He looked back down at his reports, “It needed doing,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately offhand.

            John did not respond, and Mycroft assumed the matter was dropped. They passed the rest of the ride in silence, arriving at 221B a little after six.

            “Good evening, John,” Mycroft said without looking up.

            “Good evening, Mycroft,” John replied. The doctor hesitated, and then cleared his throat nervously. “He still cares about you, you know,” he said in a rush.

            The Elder Holmes glanced up. The army doctor was wearing that same, strange expression. Mycroft gave him a tight smile, “It is pleasant to think so. Until next time, John.”

            The doctor nodded and left without another word. Mycroft turned back to his report, trying to focus on the eminent crisis in Kirgizstan, but his mind wandered rebelliously to thoughts of empty closets, paper signs, and perceptive army doctors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In my mind, this is taking place towards the very, very end of ASiB…so Sherlock is not actually in Paris…if you catch my drift…  
> Thank you for reading!


	9. Bargains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was always his first priority, but that did not mean Mycroft could simply ignore a certain Jim Moriarty.

_“John saved him,” Mummy sighed, stroking his picture reverently, “He made him better.”_

_For once in his life, Mycroft could not think of a reply. She was right, of course. John saved Sherlock, saved him in a way that neither he nor Lestrade nor even Mrs. Hudson had ever managed to, but now…“Are there anymore photographs?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. Mummy shook her head, “I should find one of the two of them together, though,” she mused, “Maybe on the blog…”_

_Mycroft’s stomach clenched into a tight knot that he knew would never unravel. He had to tell her…now. The Elder Holmes had long believed that he could find the perfect words for any occasion. He could incite international conflicts, mediate those same battles, flatter anyone who thought they were his superiors, and make his enemies feel adored while surreptitiously destroying them. Yet now he realized that, for once, he was at a loss. How do you tell your mother that her son is never coming home…and it was your fault?_

Jim Moriarty looked directly at the one-way mirror. “I will speak only to Mycroft Holmes _.”_

On the other side of the glass, Mycroft felt, rather than saw, the questioning eyes of the assembled senior military and intelligence officials. “No,” he said coolly, “give it a few weeks.”

***

The days dragged on, and still Moriarty did not speak, enduring every interrogation technique imaginable. Mycroft spent hours watching the fruitless questioning. No matter what they subjected him to, Moriarty would just smile and repeat, “I will speak only to Mycroft Holmes.”

            During one, brief respite between interrogations, Moriarty stood, clutching the metal spoon he had received to eat his meager meals, and strode to the wall.

            “What is he doing?” one of the generals breathed as Moriarty scraped the concrete wall with the back of the spoon, “Surely he’s not trying to escape.”

            “Should we stop him, sir?” a guard asked.

            “No,” Mycroft said firmly.

            “It looks like he’s _writing_ ,” The general murmured, “Perhaps he’s finally lost it.”

            “What is it?” someone, Mycroft no longer cared who, said, “A symbol?”

            Mycroft’s heart was pounding now. He fought the urge to order his men to shoot the criminal mastermind on the spot. He knew what Moriarty was writing.

            “It’s an ‘S’!” someone shouted, “Maybe he’s writing ‘Save Me!’” Mycroft did not bother to correct her.

            “No,” someone said, “It looks like the next letter’s an ‘H’.”

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft’s PA breathed, glancing up from her phone.

            The room fell silent, and, once again, everyone turned to stare at Mycroft. Normal people’s expressions were ridiculously predictable.

            “Your baby brother,” the general spluttered, “Why would he do that?”

            The question jolted Mycroft’s mind back into place. He took a deep breath, in control once more. “We have long known Moriarty has an almost fanatical obsession with my brother,” he said calmly, “This is just another manifestation of that madness.”

            “Sill,” one of the younger intelligence agents murmured, “It must make your blood run cold, watching someone like him scrape your brother’s name on the wall.”

            Tearing his eyes away from Moriarty, Mycroft turned the full force of his gaze on the soon cowering young officer, “Hardly,” he sneered, “And I suggest if you wish to remain in this line of work for long, you do not allow yourself to be intimidated by a harmless piece of graffiti.” He glanced back at the mirror; Moriarty had finished carving Sherlock’s name and was beginning on another ‘S’. “I’ve seen enough,” Mycroft said coolly, and without another word, he turned and strode from the room, but not before catching Moriarty’s maniacal grin.

***

            “Should I contact Sherlock, Sir?” his PA asked after another week of fruitless questioning. The only change was the number of time Moriarty had etched Sherlock’s name in the wall…seventeen. The criminal mastermind was beginning to scratch an ‘S’ onto the mirror now, apparently impervious to the soul-jarring screeching noises emitted when the spoon scraped the glass. Much as he wanted to, Mycroft did not order to have the spoon taken away; it would admit to the others, and, more importantly, to Moriarty, that the criminal mastermind was actually affecting him.

            “No,” he said firmly.

            His PA hesitated, “But Sir,” she said finally, “He is the only who truly understands him…”

            _That is the point,_ Mycroft thought grimly, _Sherlock is the only one who understands Moriarty, and Moriarty is the only one who could destroy Sherlock. That risk is unacceptable; Sherlock is the priority._ “No,” he repeated.

            From the tone of his voice, his PA knew better than to argue.

***

After nearly a month of fruitless interrogation, Mycroft could no longer justify not speaking to the mad man. He entered quietly; Moriarty was seated in his straight-backed chair, that same maniacal grin adorning his face. Mycroft had the sudden, insane notion that the criminal mastermind was enjoying himself.

            “Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty opened his eyes, “I was wondering when you would finally come to visit.”

            Mycroft seated himself in the chair opposite Moriarty, “You asked to speak to me.”

            “I asked _ages_ ago,” Moriarty puckered his lips in a false pout, “What took you so long?”

            “I prefer not to get my hands dirty…rather like you.”

            “ _Very_ good,” Moriarty chuckled, “Although we both know that is not the real reason.” He sighed dramatically, “Like what I did with the place?” he said conversationally and gestured around at the walls, where Sherlock’s name was now inscribed fifty-four times.

            “Not as much as our psychologists,” Mycroft replied just as amicably, “You sent them an early Christmas.”

            Moriarty chuckled, “I know. Too bad they’re too stupid to understand. That’s why I refused to speak to anyone else.”

            Mycroft briefly imagined the affronted expressions currently adorning the faces of the half-dozen world-renown psychologists currently watching their discussion, “But I can understand.”

            “Don’t be silly! Of course you cannot understand our game.”

            “Whatever childish game you think you are playing with Sherlock is irrelevant,” Mycroft said coldly.

            “Of course it’s relevant,” Moriarty leaned forward, his crazed eyes boring into Mycroft’s own, “You want information, and I want to be distracted. Sherlock is the best distraction of all, but you and all your little men are boring. Your brother thinks so, too. Why do you think he became and addict?”

            The words stung, but Mycroft did not allow himself to show it, “Then why did you want to speak to me?”

            “Because we share the same obsession,” Moriarty’s grin was rabid now, “You are _dull_ …the king of angels who plays in the shadows and cares for only two things: your work and your baby brother. The question is…” he continued in a sing-song voice, “Which do you love more?”

            _Sherlock is always my first priority_ Mycroft thought fiercely, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, “You are proposing some type of exchange.”

            “I will give you the location of your three most wanted terrorists if you tell me what Sherlock wanted to be when he grew up.”

Mycroft did not reply; he was not sure what to expect from perhaps the most dangerous and devious men in the world, but this was not it.

“Oh!” Moriarty said giddily, “Not what you were expecting, eh?”

            “I want information on the computer key code.”

            “Ah, Mykee, you’re just stalling,” Moriarty’s grin grew still broader, “Is that what he called you? But he can be _soo_ lazy, perhaps it was something shorter…My.” Mycroft’s jaw clenched, but he kept his face expressionless. Moriarty, however, saw, “I’m right aren’t I?” He chuckled, “Maybe you’re not so much of an Iceman after all… I bet you would give anything to hear him call you that one more time.”

            “The. Key. Code. Now.” Mycroft hissed.

“Ohh, getting angry now are we? But I’ve got news for you, _My,_ little Sherlock’s all grown up now, and he’s the only one capable of destroying me…just like I’m the only one capable of destroying him.”

“I could have you shot right now.” Mycroft had never found any idea more appealing.

“How _adorable_ ,” Moriarty purred, “both of us know that killing me, My, will do nothing. My web’s too big, too elaborate… and your little brother’s the only one who has a prayer of unraveling it.”

“If what you’re saying is true,” Mycroft said, artificially injecting a heavy dose of sarcasm into his voice, “Then why would I give you information to help you destroy your only rival.”

“Oh I will destroy him, My. I _will_ destroy Sherlock Holmes, and I certainly don’t need your help to do it.”

“Then why are you here?” Mycroft demanded, barely bothering to keep his anger in check.

“Call it academic curiosity,” Moriarty shrugged, “He must have had a fascinating childhood… a young genius growing up in the highest echelon of the aristocracy, but so _tragically_ misunderstood…Can I help that I’m interested? More importantly, would you really risk the lives of thousands of British citizens just because you’re too overprotective of little Sherlock? I give you the locations of your three most wanted terrorists, and all I ask is that you tell me what Sherlock wanted to be when he grew up.”

Mycroft hesitated; clearly, Moriarty was playing a larger game --a game centered on Sherlock. Undoubtedly, he was hoping that after Mycroft gave him small, meaningless details about his brother’s life, he would be willing to give the mad man far more compromising information. _Well_ , Mycroft thought firmly, _I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but I will not be controlled by this maniac, and I will not allow him to control the entire criminal underworld._

He squared his shoulders and looked Jim Moriarty directly in the eye, “A pirate.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	10. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only good men, the John Watson’s of the world, were allowed to grieve. Mycroft was left with something far bitterer....Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter...enjoy :)

“Mycroft,” Mummy closed the album and laid her wrinkled hand on Mycroft’s own, “Mycroft, what is wrong?”

“What makes you say something is wrong?” Mycroft murmured without thinking.

“Mycroft,” Mummy sighed reproachfully, “I’m not half as clever as either of my sons, but I am no fool either. You come home, unannounced, in the middle of the night for the first time in six months, and I find you looking through a photo album…something is wrong, and you cannot bring yourself to tell me.” She hesitated, “What happened to Sherlock?”

Mycroft forced himself to meet his mother’s eyes. They were calm, but anguished, as if she had been fighting tears for hours. Strange he had not noticed until now. “How do you know something happened to Sherlock?”

“Nothing else could make you this upset,” she paused, “And earlier today he sent me a text.” She pulled out her iPhone, tapped a few icons, and handed it to Mycroft.

The message was brief.

**I am sorry. -SH**

            Mycroft glanced at the time the message was sent…almost half an hour before Sherlock jumped. Something between a sigh and a groan forced itself through his lips. He handed the phone back to Mummy without looking at her and buried his face in his hands, “Do you know,” he began slowly, “That I promised myself years ago that Sherlock would always be my first priority.”

            “Of course.”

            “I made a mistake,” Mycroft whispered, “And I broke my promise. I told Jim Moriarty Sherlock’s life story in exchange for information critical to national security.”

            He waited as the implication of what he had done descended upon Mummy: “What did he do?” she finally gasped.

            “He used the information to convince the world that Sherlock was a fraud. The story ran in the papers this morning.” Mycroft had prevented said papers from reaching their doorstep and intercepted all calls or visits from snooping acquaintances.

            “Surely you can stop it! Surely you can prove that he is not!” Mummy demanded furiously.

            “I can,” Mycroft admitted, “And I will, but…it hardly matters now.”

            “How can you say that? Of course it matters!”

            “Mummy,” Mycroft had never been gentle with anyone before, except Sherlock twenty-five years ago, and it felt strange, but not as strange as he might have thought….his mother’s eyes were the same as _his_ , “He is…” his lips refused to form the word “dead,” although it was the truth. _But is he really dead_ a small, desperate corner of his mind asked. There were a few details as he toured the scene and examined the CCTV footage…little things that did not quite add up…or perhaps he simply was not brave enough to tell his mother the truth… “Gone,” Mycroft completed, “Sherlock’s gone.”

            “Did Moriarty kill him?” Mummy whispered, tears running down her cheeks.

            “We are not certain,” Mycroft said carefully, “Moriarty’s body was found with a bullet in his head on the roof of Bart’s. The angle of the wound leaves no doubt that it was self-inflicted.”

            “I do not understand,” Mummy breathed, “That is good, right?”

            Mycroft took a deep breath, “Sherlock was on the roof with him,” he said, “Almost immediately after Moriarty shot himself, he threw himself off the building.”

            “He what!” Mummy spluttered, “Mycroft, your wrong!”

            “I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispered, and for once, it was the truth, “I could not get there in time.”

            “No!” Mummy’s voice was firm, defiant, as she wiped the tears away from her eyes, “No. He would never do something like that--no matter what happened.”

            “There were warrants out for his arrest.”

            “Shut up, Mycroft! Shut Up!” Mycroft did not know his mother was even aware of such colloquialisms, “Sherlock would never kill himself, and you know it!”

            There was a pregnant pause, “You are right,” Mycroft sighed, “I suspect--and there is no way to prove this--but I suspect that Moriarty forced him to jump.”

            “How?” Mummy’s face was fierce, almost vicious.

            “By threatening the lives of John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and perhaps Greg Lestrade,” Mycroft said heavily, “If faced with that choice…I think it is clear what he would do.”

            Another pause. Mummy’s face collapsed back into stunned sorrow, “He died saving his friends,” she whispered, simultaneously anguished and awe-struck, “And he brought Moriarty down with him…my brave, brave son.”

            “Yes,” Mycroft agreed, though Moriarty’s words ‘It wouldn’t make a difference if I died,’ forced their way to his mind. He did not repeat them.

            Mummy did not reply. Instead, she sighed heavily, stood, and left the room. Mycroft did not bother deducing where she had gone off to, so he was surprised when she returned barely a minute later, clutching two crystal glasses and a decanter of their finest scotch in both her hands. Seating herself back on the couch, she filled the glasses and handed one to Mycroft. He accepted it without a word and immediately drained it, relishing the burn of the alcohol on his throat and not caring that he was wasting a hundred pounds worth of liquid without really bothering to taste it. A bottle of American moonshine would suit his current purposes just as well.

            “This is what people do, when someone they care about dies, is it not?” Mummy mused, staring pensively at her glass without drinking any, “Sit around and drink.”

            Mycroft nodded, poured himself another glass, and took a large drink. He had pretended to get wasted many times throughout his years at school and University, but he had never done it properly himself.

            There seemed no better time to do so.

            “Why is that, do you think?” Mummy mused, still staring at the dark liquid in her glass.

            Mycroft pulled the glass he was about to drain from his lips; despite his new found determination to drink until he lost every ounce of self-awareness, he had no desire to do so in front of Mummy.

            Perhaps if he answered her question, she could go away, and he could devote his attention to the decanter. “You mean why do people drink when someone dies?” When Mummy nodded, he shrugged, “I suppose they wish to forget.”

            “Do they?” Mummy frowned at the dark liquid and then glanced at the photo album lying on the coffee table. She set the glass on the table with a loud _thunk_ , “I do not want to forget.”

            She ran her hand over the soft leather of the album; Mycroft finished his second glass of scotch in a single gulp. He reached again for the decanter, but Mummy grabbed it first. “No, Mycroft.”

            It was the first time she had tried to tell him “no” since he was four years old. Mycroft sniffed dismissively and reached again for decanter. Before he could grab it, however, Mummy stood and strode to the bathroom. A minute later, she returned, holding a now-empty decanter.

            “That bottle was worth several thousand pounds,” Mycroft noted, “There was no need to pour it down the drain.”

            “I do not want to forget,” Mummy repeated, “And neither do you.”

            He raised his eyebrows, “How would you know?” He knew she would understand what remained unsaid: _You have never truly known me._

Mummy sighed heavily and sank back into the couch. Then she picked up the photo album again and turned to the picture of her and Sherlock in the hospital: “He was a mistake; did you know that? The result of a single night of madness...” She smiled humorlessly at Mycroft’s lack of reaction, “Of course you did. I suppose Sherlock did too.”

            “Naturally,” Mycroft murmured.

            “I was not ready,” she continued, “I never was, but I thought that, if I _loved_ him enough, it would be alright. I would still be able to give him everything he needed.” She gave a short, humorless laugh, “I was wrong, of course, absolutely wrong. He needed, he deserved so much more than love…he needed understanding. He needed you, and you needed him. You still need him,” She sighed again, “That is why you do not want to forget, Mycroft, why you will never be able to forget…my son of ice and my son of fire, simultaneously destroying and sustaining each other. It seems impossible, but then I look at you two…” She sighed, “When the fire is gone it becomes all the more important to remember its heat.”

            Mycroft did not respond to this, but he knew Mummy did not expect him to. Instead, she sighed again, picked up the album, and stood, “I am sure you are busy dear, thank you for telling me yourself…I am going to try to sleep,” she gave him a rueful smile, “Though more likely I am going to sit and remember my son.” Mycroft nodded. She hesitated, stroking the album absently with her wrinkled fingers, “Will you be making the…arrangements.”

            Mycroft nodded.  Sherlock had always been his responsibility; even death would not change that.

            Mummy gave him her familiar, relieved smile, “Thank you,” she sighed before slowly heading to her bedroom.

***

It was a long time before Mycroft moved. His mind supplied him with a thousand matters that needed his attention: sabotaging the North Korean missile program, yet again, saving DI Lestrade’s career, mediating a dispute in Parliament, ensuring the assassins vanished from Baker Street, organizing a trade summit with India, arranging the funeral…

            Sherlock’s funeral.

            Sherlock was dead.

            Mycroft supposed this is what grief felt like; it was an emotion he had needed to mimic on occasion but never felt himself. It was a week, volatile state of being that hijacked logic, dismantled efficiency, and eradicated practicality. It made one unforgivably weak.

            Since Mummy had ensured that alcohol no longer remained an option, he tried to simply push the emotion away, to remind himself of all the hours of worry and frustration, of every barbed argument, of the thousands of dollars he had spent over the years just to keep Sherlock alive, of the fact that his brother had long ceased to love him.

            Then why were the only arguments he could remember their silent but heated battles over whether the important men Father had over for dinner had one or two mistresses? Why were the only late nights that seemed to matter were the ones he and Sherlock spent as children reading in comfortable silence until dawn? Why was the only note-worthy expense the suit Sherlock had purchased with the credit card he stole from Mycroft because, “If one is to work as a Consulting Detective, one must look the part?” Why were the only drugs busts that seemed of any importance were those carried out by an exasperated Lestrade recovering evidence? Why could he not forget the three-year-old toddler burying his face in Mycroft’s shoulder as they both hid from the terrors of the mundane world in their tiny Palace?

            It was another long moment before Mycroft realized this new, immobilizing, emotion was not grief at all. Only good men, the John Watson’s of the world, were allowed to grieve. Mycroft was left with something far bitterer.

            Regret.

            Because he had failed.

            All the years as he guided, enticed, pushed, pulled, dragged Sherlock through over twenty-five years of living. After dealing with self-righteous teachers and insecure bullies, with gossiping acquaintances and jealous fathers, with cocaine and heroin Sherlock’s self-destructive personality until Sherlock finally reached something that could almost be described as happy.

            After all this, when the greatest battles had seemed to be over, he had failed.

            And he would never be able to fix it.

            Because Sherlock was dead.

            The words seemed wrong, as if they violated some unspoken law of nature; Sherlock was a force of nature unto himself. He could not simply die.

            _You saw the body_ , he berated himself. _You stood with Molly in the morgue and saw the body. You checked for a pulse, knowing you would not find one, then you ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his brow, and you told him how sorry you were as Molly said in a trembling voice that he did not suffer much. Then you looked at her, this unimportant girl with her silly crush, and she looked so inexplicably guilty, and even a little afraid, and you wondered why she seemed more guilty than sad. One more detail that did not make sense, almost as if he was not…_

            Mycroft jumped to his feet (he most certainly had not done that for several decades) and nearly ran to the stairs. It was absurd, ridiculous, impossible to even entertain the notion that his brother was still alive, and yet there were so many things, so many tiny details that did not quite add up, something that made the whole blasted situation seem so…Sherlock-like. If he had Miss Hooper’s help…Mycroft could just see a way he could have done it...and there was one place the Elder Holmes thought his brother might go.

            He burst into Sherlock’s room, breathing harder than he ever had in his life. The room was completely dark, but the light in the hall allowed him to just distinguish the outline of the open closet door, and sitting in the closet, without so much as a scratch…

            “Shut the door,” Sherlock Holmes commanded.

            Swallowing his shout of relief, Mycroft obeyed. He then crossed the room and made sure the curtains were completely shut before switching on a desk lamp. Sherlock scowled as the room was bathed in shadowy light but did not comment. Mycroft stared at his brother, taking in the every dark curl, every fold of his coat, the navy scarf folded around his neck, “You’re here,” Mycroft whispered.

            Sherlock’s scowl deepened, “Believe me, _dear_ brother,” he sneered-- Mycroft had never heard anyone’s voice drip with such loathing: “It is only because I had nowhere else to go.” Despite his glee, Mycroft also felt as if he had been punched in the gut; he would never be forgiven for what he had done.  Sherlock closed his eyes, “Moriarty’s men are still out there,” he said, most of his hatred replaced with crushing weariness that Mycroft found more terrible than his rage. He had rarely seen anyone so exhausted, so dejected. Sherlock face was that of a man who had lost everything. The strange and unwelcome feelings of guilt, of regret, assaulted him once more, “They will be searching, making sure I am actually dead; I cannot even contact the homeless network. The only place I am reasonably confident his men would not, and could not, look is…here,” he completed with another scowl, “Unless, of course, you are entertaining them…seeing as you are such _great_ pals.”

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, “Sherlock I am so…”

            “Don’t,” Sherlock snarled, his eyes snapping open as he glared at his brother, “Just don’t.” _There are not words enough_ his eyes completed.

            Mycroft nodded, fighting the insane urge to sit next to Sherlock in the closet and wrap his arms around him until all their problems disappeared, as if they were children again. It was ridiculous, of course. These problems would not simply go away, and, in any case, Mycroft was certain Sherlock’s would throttle him if he got close. Instead, Mycroft seated himself on the edge of the bed. “We have an extensive file on Moriarty’s organization,” he said carefully, “Not complete by any means, but enough to give you a place to start.”

            Wordlessly, Sherlock reached into the folds his coat and pulled out a thick file. Mycroft opened his mouth to ask how on earth is brother had gotten it before deciding the he did not want to know. “It is a passable attempt,” Sherlock sniffed, flicking through the file, “But you are clearly missing most of the critical threads.”

            “I know,” Mycroft agreed, “I am certain you are the only who capable of unraveling it completely.”

            “Then why not give it to me before now?”

            Mycroft shot his brother a rueful smile, “Would you believe that I was trying to protect you?”

            Sherlock glanced up sharply, his blue-grey eyes boring into Mycroft’s. “Well, you certainly botched that up,” he said finally.

            “Indeed.”

            Sherlock sighed and closed the file, “I’m assuming he offered you information on the key code, and perhaps a few tidbits about some prominent terrorist cells.”

            “Yes.”

            Sherlock starred up at the ceiling, “It’s no real, you know, they key code. He just made it up.”

            Fifty curses in a dozen language surged through Mycroft’s head all at once. He made use of a few choice ones before finally asking, “When did you figure it out?”

            “Sooner than Moriarty thought, just before I went to the roof…but not soon enough.”

            “He really is dead then?” Jim Moriarty seemed too inhuman to die, almost like Sherlock.

            “Yes,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, still inspecting the ceiling, “He went to the rooftop ready to die. It was simple enough to convince him to go through with the suicide.”

            “You convinced him to shoot himself,” Mycroft breathed, “How?”

            “I promised to shake hands with him in hell,” Sherlock said with a small, fierce smile.

            “There was something in Sherlock’s eyes…a wild darkness that had always lurked beneath the surface but was rarely called to the forefront…that made the Elder Holmes shudder involuntarily: “I do not doubt you would.”

            Sherlock shot his brother a look that resembled both a grimace and a mirthless smile before returning to his study of the ceiling.

            The silence dragged on for several uncomfortable minutes, “Mummy got your message,” Mycroft said finally.

            A strange look--was it guilt?--flickered across Sherlock’s features before being buried beneath his expressionless façade, “Yes.”

            “Do you wish to tell her?”

            “No.”

            “Sherlock, she was heartbroken.”

            “And you think John isn’t,” Sherlock hissed, his eyes flashing with renewed rage

            Of course, Sherlock was right. “He does not believe you were a fraud,” Mycroft murmured.

            “I know,” Sherlock sighed, “I hoped that lie would make it easier for him…it is far simpler to hate a fraud…but it was unlikely.”

            They lapsed, once again, into silence. Sherlock resumed his inspection of the ceiling with a small, broken, frown, and Mycroft studied Sherlock. He wondered when his little brother had finally grown up, when he had finally found something he cared about more than himself, more than the Work, his reputation, everything that had, not long ago, made him Sherlock. When had the cold, tormented, self-destructive youth been replaced with the man who threw himself off a building to save the people he loved? How had Mycroft missed the change?

            “Did you tell him about this place?” Sherlock’s words came in a rush as he indicated the closet (though Mycroft still thought of it as The Palace) around him, but his gaze did not waver from the ceiling.

            “Moriarty? No,” Mycroft said firmly.

“Why not?” Mycroft read the silent accusation on his brother’s features: _You told him everything else._

It was several seconds before Mycroft could bring himself to speak: “For the same reason you never told John why you still keep your closet in 221b empty.” He knew Sherlock would hear what remained unsaid: _Those memories are sacred._

            Sherlock did not answer. Instead, he turned the full force of his gaze on Mycroft. It was a terribly uncomfortable experience; the Elder Holmes felt as if the blue-grey eyes were piercing his soul, but Mycroft did not look away. After a long moment that seemed also to be an eternity, Sherlock nodded.

            Mycroft sighed again, in relief this time, as the weight of twenty years’ worth of silent conversations, of battles and betrayals with their endless cycles of hatred, forgiveness, resentment, and affection eased a little. He felt both ancient and young. The past, especially the recent past, was by no means forgotten or forgiven…far from it, but the memory of a long-gone childhood resuscitated the hope that, perhaps, they would one day call each other brothers. It was more than Mycroft had dared hope for five minutes ago.

            “When do you intend to leave?” Mycroft said finally. As always, Sherlock understood. _I am so glad to have you home, please do not feel you need to leave quickly._

            Sherlock stood, “I should leave immediately. It has been twelve hours; most of Moriarty’s men will have stopped searching.” _I know, but I have another home, and another family, and I will not rest until they are safe._

“Stay the night at least.” _You need to rest._

            “I can’t.” _I won’t._

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft half-growled, half-pleaded.“Stay just a few hours, and I will be able to procure you a new identity, which will save you far more time than you will be spending here.” _Let me help you. Please._

            Sherlock scowled, “Fine.” _But only for John’s sake._

            Mycroft nodded, pulled out his phone, and began making calls. Sherlock sat back down in the closet, leaned his head against the wall, and closed his eyes--clearly more exhausted than he had been letting on.

“Finished,” Mycroft announced fifteen minutes later. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, all traces of weariness gone. “You are now officially a special agent deep undercover in Her Majesty’s service…It is merely a technicality,” Mycroft rolled his eyes at this brother’s scowl: “You are not accountable to anyone, but it will give you access to all the government’s resources, should you ever feel you need them. Your new identification papers, along with a debit card with a million pounds, will be dropped in the post box in approximately six hours. And before you ask, I was more than discreet. You are a ghost in the system; no one, not even the people making the papers, have enough information to know you are alive.” Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, and Mycroft stood and stretched his limbs. The conversation was over, and they were both due for some sleep. “Do try to get some rest,” he said as he laid his hand on the door handle.

            Sherlock stood and glided across the room, stopping a few feet away from his brother, “Eventually.”

            It was the best Mycroft could hope for, so he nodded and turned to leave. He hesitated, his hand pulling the door open before he snapped it shut and whirled around again. Perhaps it was because this was the first time they were both in Sherlock’s bedroom since Mycroft had first visited after starting University, perhaps it was because they were both exhausted, perhaps it was the hope-inducing words of a certain army doctor, perhaps the observations of a distraught mother, or perhaps it was because he was so relieved that Sherlock was really, truly _alive_ , but Mycroft found himself asking, “When did you change it back?”

Sherlock blinked, “What?” Mycroft could not tell if his brother’s confusion was genuine, or if he simply did not want to talk about it. Mycroft hesitated; Holmes’ did not discuss emotions, the past…. _sentiment_. More to the point, he and Sherlock _never_ discussed such trivial, _normal_ things.

Then again, Sherlock was about to embark on the most dangerous and difficult case of his life; both of them knew it was possible that he would never return, and Mycroft was the only one, with the exception of Miss Hooper, who knew that he was alive.

Much as they both rued change, a slight adjustment in their relationship seemed necessary.

“Your Mind Palace,” Mycroft said finally, “You told me you changed it to a Laboratory, but John referred to it as a Palace.” Sherlock’s face was expressionless, and it took all of Mycroft’s considerable will to hold his gaze, “When did you change it back?”

Sherlock cocked his head and stared at Mycroft with narrowed eyes. It was nearly half a minute before he sighed, a deep, tired sigh that seemed to say everything and nothing. Then he straightened himself, and said slowly, “It was always a Palace.” Then he smirked, a strange smirk that was both conceited and strangely sad. _How foolish you are to think I am able to simply delete you._

“Ah,” because even emotionally competent individuals would not be able to describe the staggering wave of…was there even a word? Relief, gratitude, love? None of them sufficed.

 Nevertheless, he could not simply walk out now, so he settled on saying something trite, mundane, normal…“Good luck.” _Good luck, dear brother, and know that I love you more than I can say, and you could never make me prouder._

            Sherlock’s lips peaked up in something that vaguely resembled a smile, “I thought we agreed caring is not an advantage.”

            Mycroft smiled. _You know you were always the exception._ “Goodbye Sherlock.”

            “Goodbye Mycroft,” Sherlock said, without any sarcasm. _And thank you._

            The Elder Holmes nodded, because he knew what his brother’s silent gratitude really meant.  A strange, foreign lump rose in his throat; it was time to leave before he broke down competely. With a final nod to his brother, Mycroft turned and left the room.

***

            He did not try to be there when Sherlock slipped away. Everything there was to say (and not say) had been said (and spoken in silence), and Mycroft knew his brother would prefer to begin his journey in solitude. Instead, the Elder Holmes got nine-and-a-half hours of sleep--by far the longest night’s rest he had had in nearly three years--showered, and dressed leisurely before heading downstairs.

            The house was silent; perhaps Mummy had finally drifted off to sleep. Mycroft felt a brief twang of guilt for their deception, but Sherlock was right, it could not be helped, so Mycroft deleted the feeling.

            He instructed the cook to prepare him an omelet and, while he waited, wandered outside to check the post box. He opened the box and smiled; Sherlock had taken everything, including the mobile Mycroft had ordered placed there. Still smiling, he strolled back into the house, settled himself at the dining room table with his laptop, his omelet, and a cup of tea, and began attacking his mountain of work. The first order of business was to set up level four protection around John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, and Greg Lestrade. While he had no doubt Sherlock successfully convinced the world that he was dead, once he started eliminating some of the key strands of Moriarty’s web, someone would undoubtedly realize the truth, and the lives of Sherlock’s friends would be in peril again. Mycroft was determined to prevent this eventuality, without their knowledge of course. John in particular was already more than ready to kill him.

            The next few hours passed peacefully as Mycroft methodically worked through his barrage of emails. It was only after he had given the go-ahead for the North Korean sabotage operation that he realized it was nearly noon, and Mummy really should be up.

            Sighing, he closed his laptop, stood, and made his way upstairs. To his mild surprise, Mummy was not in her room, and, judging by the state of her bed, she had not slept the night before.

            His phone pinged. Mycroft pulled it out of his pocket and read the message with a small smile.

            **Departing. Take care of John -SH**

Smiling, Mycroft quickly typed a response.

            **Naturally.  – MH**

The response was nearly instantaneous.

            **Disabled the GPS tracker in this**. - **SH**

**Needed to give you something to do while you waited for your flight. -MH**

As Mycroft anticipated, there was no reply. Pocketing the phone, he resumed his search for Mummy.

 

            He found her, unsurprisingly, in Sherlock’s room. She was finally asleep, curled under the covers of his bed. The photo album was clutched to her chest. Mycroft briefly considered waking her before deciding that there was really no need. “Imagine that,” he murmured to her, “Fire and ice do sustain each other after all.” Then turned to leave, his thoughts already forming his newest strategy to mediate the latest squabble in Parliament, but a flicker in the corner of his eye made him pause and enticed him to turn towards the closet-palace.

            The closet door was ajar; Mycroft was just able to see a corner of the blue blanket, folded neatly on the floor. It took him another moment to realize what had changed. 

            Since the closet door was partially open, the front of it was not immediately visible. Mycroft had trained himself to avoid looking at the door anyway, not wanting to be reminded of the sign that had once hung there before it was torn off and destroyed in Sherlock’s rage, leaving the door, and their relationship, burned, destroyed, empty.

            Except the door was not empty.

            Hardly daring to breathe, Mycroft approached the closet door and ran his trembling fingers over the paper now hanging there. The sign was abused: wrinkled, stained, torn, and burned. Yet Mycroft could still make out the words painstakingly written by a five-year-olds unsteady hand nearly twenty-five years ago, words that an eleven-year-old had miraculously decided not to destroy, words that a twenty-eight-year-old had returned to their original home.

My and Sherlock’s Palace

NO TRESPASSING

Fumbling for his phone, Mycroft typed a message. His fingers hovered over the keys for a moment before he finally pressed “Send”.

            **You are still my first priority. –MH**

Then, for the first time since he comforted his hysterical three-year-old brother all those years ago, a tear ran down Mycroft Holmes’ cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love to hear to hear your thoughts.  
> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave your thoughts, including constructive criticism.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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